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LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


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SECTION  III 

THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA 

FROM    ITS    BEGINNING    TO    THE    PRESENT    DAY 


GENERAL    EDITOR 

GEORGE  PIERCE  BAKER 

PROFESSOR    OF    ENGLISH    IN 
HARVARD    UNIVERSITY 


MARY  STUART 


IN  CAPTIVITY  AT  SHEFFIELD  CASTLE 

FROM  THE  PAINTING  BY  P.  OUDRY  IN  THE  COLLECTION  OF  THE 

OOKE  OF  DEVONSHIRE  K.  G.  AT  HARDWICK  HALL 


MARY   STUART 

BY 

ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 


EDITED    BY 

WILLIAM  MORTON  PAYNE,  LL.D. 

ASSOCIATE    EDITOR    OF    **  THE    DIAL  " 


BOSTON,  U.S.A.,  AND  LONDON 

D.   C.   HEATH  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 

1906 


COPYRIGHT,    1906,    BY    D.    C.    HEATH    &   CO. 
ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 


To 
G.  M. 


^vtfatoxv  i^ote 


The  selection  for  the  purposes  of  the  Belles-Lettres  Se- 
ries of  the  play  most  strictly  representative  of  Swinburne's 
dramatic  work  has  been  determined  by  the  following  con- 
siderations. The  Siueen  Mother  and  Rosamond  are  out  of 
the  question  because  of  their  immaturity  j  Atalanta  in 
Calydon  and  Erechtheus  are  put  aside  because  of  the  fact 
that  their  proper  classification  is  with  the  lyrical  rather  than 
with  the  dramatic  group  of  his  poems.  There  remain  the 
Mary  Stuart  trilogy  and  the  four  later  dramas.  Since 
the  trilogy  is  unquestionably  Swinburne' s  dramatic  master- 
work,  it  must  be  represented,  and  {Botbivell  being  ex- 
cluded by  its  great  length)  the  choice  must  fall  upon 
either  Chastelard  or  Mary  Stuart.  The  former  of  these 
plays  is  essentially  a  production  of  the  poet' s  unchastened 
and  exuberant  youth,  and  consequently,  despite  the  patent 
beauty  of  its  poetic  diction,  must  give  place  to  the  latter, 
which  exemplifies  the  full  ripeness  of  Swinburne's  dramatic 
powers  and  the  complete  mastery  of  his  poetical  material. 
The  fact,  moreover,  that  the  author  has  himself  avowed 
the  belief  that  he  has  never  **  written  anything  worthier  " 
in  its  kind  than  Mary  Stuart  should  confirm  the  justice 
of  the  selection.  A  further  reason  is  incidentally  provided 
by  the  fact  that  Schiller's  treatment  of  the  close  of  the 
career  of  the  Queen  of  Scots  is  made  the  subject  of  much 


study  in  school  and  college,  a  fact  which  makes  it  inter- 
esting to  compare  his  treatment  with  that  of  Swinburne. 
The  present  text  follows  the  so-called  second  edition 
of  1899,  which  is,  however,  an  unaltered  reprint  of  the 
original  edition  of  1 8  8 1 . 

W.   M.   P. 


l5ioq,mpl)V 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne  was  born  in  London,  April 
5,  1837.  He  was  the  oldest  child  of  Admiral  Charles  Henry 
Swinburne  and  Lady  Jane  Henrietta,  daughter  of  the  third  Earl 
of  Ashburnham.  Both  the  Swinburne  and  the  Ashburnham  line- 
ages are  long  and  distinguished.  The  present  head  of  the  family  is 
Sir  John  Edward  Swinburne,  sixth  baronet,  a  first  cousin  of  the 
poet.  Algernon  was  educated  at  Eton  and  Balliol,  but  left  Oxford 
without  taking  a  degree.  During  his  university  years  (  1 856-1 860) 
he  contributed  to  Undergraduate  Papers^  distinguished  himself  in 
French,  Italian,  and  the  classics,  and  began  his  life-long  friendship 
with  Morris,  Rossetti,  and  Burne-Jones.  His  first  book.  The  S^ueen 
Mother  and  Rosamond,  was  published  in  i860,  just  after  leaving 
the  university.  A  visit  to  Italy  the  next  year  was  made  memorable 
by  his  meeting  with  Walter  Savage  Landor.  Returning  to  England, 
he  devoted  himself  to  literary  work,  in  1865  won  the  applause 
of  the  judicious  with  his  Atalanta  in  Calydon  and  Chastelard,  and 
in  1866  took  the  public  by  storm  with  the  famous  first  volume 
of  Poems  and  Ballads.  During  the  next  twelve  years  he  lived  in 
London,  and  wrote  industriously.  The  chief  works  of  this  period 
are  William  Blake:  A  Critical  Essay  (1868),  Songs  before  Sun- 
rise (1871),  Bothivell  (1874),  Essays  and  Studies  (1875),  Songs 
of  T'zvo  Nations  (1875),  Erechtheus  (^1876),  and  the  second  series 
of  Poems  and  Ballads  (1878).  During  these  years  in  London  he 
became  intimately  associated  with  Theodore  Watts  (now  Watts- 
Dunton),  and  in  1879  accepted  the  invitation  of  that  distinguished 
man  of  letters  to  share  his  home  at  Putney  Hill,  a  London  suburb. 
Here  the  poet  has  lived  ever  since,  except  for  a  few  holiday  excur- 
sions, and  here  he  has  produced  the  long  succession  of  books  that 
have  added  almost  yearly  to  his  ever-broadening  fame.  The  prin- 
cipal titles  are  :  A  Study  of  Shakespeare  (i^So),  Songs  of  the  Spring- 
tides (1880),  Studies  in  Song  (1880),  Mary  Stuart  (1881),  Tris- 
tram of  Lyonesse  (1882),  A  Century  of  Roundels  {l^^T^),  A  Mid- 
summer Holiday  {1%%^)^  Marino  Faliero  {lii^)yA  Study  of  Victor 


viii  315iograpl^^ 

Hugo  (1886),  Miscellanies  (1886),  Locrine  (1887),  a  third  series 
of  Poems  and  Ballads {!%%()),  The  Sisters (li^2),  Astrophel {\%<)^)^ 
Studies  in  Prose  and  Poetry  (1894),  The  Tale  of  Balen  (1896), 
Rosamund^  Siueen  of  the  Lombards  (1899),  A  Channel  Passage 
(1904),  and  Love's  Cross  Currents  (1905),  a  novel  in  epistolary 
form,  published  serially  and  pseudonymously  in  1877,  and  written 
in  the  early  sixties.  The  foregoing  list  omits  several  works  of  minor 
importance,  and  takes  no  account  of  a  large  amount  of  material 
still  uncollected  from  the  pages  of  the  periodicals  to  which  it  was 
contributed.  The  poet  has  recently  superintended  a  uniform  reissue 
of  his  verse,  the  Poems,  in  six  volumes,  and  the  Tragedies,  in  five 
volumes.  Of  late  years  Swinburne  has  lived  a  somewhat  secluded 
life,  owing  in  large  measure  to  the  infirmity  of  deafness,  but  he 
retains  his  active  interest  in  the  historical  happenings  of  the  time. 


gintro&uctfon 


Swinburne  is  the  author  of  eleven  dramatic  works, 
all  tragedies,  and  all  written  in  verse.  ^  The  list  com- 
prises: first,  the  two  juvenile  pieces.  The  Queen  Mother 
and  Rosamondy  included  in  his  earliest  volume  ;  second, 
Atalanta  in  Calydon  and  Erechtheus,  his  two  repro- 
ductions of  the  Greek  form  ;  third,  the  colossal  chron- 
icle-trilogy which  deals  with  the  tragic  fortunes  of  the 
Queen  of  Scots,  and  which  consists  of  Chastelard, 
Bothwelly  and  Mary  Stuart ;  and  fourth,  the  tragedies 
of  his  later  years,  which  are  Marino  FalierOy  Locrine, 
The  SisterSy  and  Rosamundy  Queen  of  the  Lombards, 
Of  these  eleven  productions  the  two  Greek  studies, 
being  essentially  lyrical  in  spirit  and  accent,  are  grouped 
with  the  Poems  in  their  author's  classiiicadon  of  his 
works,  while  the  remaining  nine  constitute  the  Tragedies 
in  that  classification,  and  occupy  five  of  the  eleven  vol- 
umes which  make  up  the  new  uniform  edition  of  Swin- 
burne's  verse.  It  is  an  account  of  these  nine  tragedies 
that  is  now  attempted. 

In  the  Dedicatory  Epistle  of  1904,  inscribing  the 
new  edidon  of  his  works  to  Theodore  Watts-Dunton, 

^  Since  this  essay  is  given  up  exclusively  to  the  study  of  Swin- 
burne's dramatic  verse,  its  readers  may  be  referred,  for  a  more  com- 
prehensive view  of  his  work,  and  for  those  considerations  which 
compel  us  to  regard  him  as  the  greatest  poet  now  living,  to  the 
present  editor's  Introduction  to  Selected  Poems  by  Algernon  Charles 
Sivinburne,  published  in  the  section  of  the  Belles-Lettres  Series  de- 
voted to  Nineteenth  Century  Poets. 


X  31ntroDuction 

his  "best  and  dearest  friend,"  Swinburne  thus  speaks 
of  his  first  venture  in  dramatic  composition  :  **  My 
first  if  not  my  strongest  ambition  was  to  do  something 
worth  doing,  and  not  utterly  unworthy  of  a  young 
countryman  of  Marlowe  the  teacher  and  Webster  the 
pupil  of  Shakespeare,  in  a  line  of  work  which  those 
three  poets  had  left  as  a  possibly  unattainable  example 
for  ambitious  Englishmen.  And  my  first  book,  written 
while  yet  under  academic  or  tutorial  authority,  bore 
evidence  of  that  ambition  in  every  line.  I  should  be  the 
last  to  deny  that  it  also  bore  evidence  of  the  fact  that 
its  writer  had  no  more  notion  of  dramatic  or  theatrical 
construction  than  the  authors  of  Tamburlaine  the 
Greats  King  Henry  VJy  and  5/r  Thomas  Wyatt. ' '  This 
self-criticism  seems  a  trifle  severe  as  applied  to  The 
^een  Mother,  which  play,  whatever  its  faults  of  man- 
nerism, of  obscurity  or  super-subtlety,  of  turgid  diction, 
and  of  over-emphasis  of  its  sensuous  elements,  is  at  least 
structurally  coherent  and  dramatically  effective  in  the 
Elizabethan  manner.  It  preserves  the  unities  of  time 
and  place,  the  scene  being  laid  in  Paris  during  the  three 
days  that  culminated  with  the  night  of  the  massacre  of 
St.  Bartholomew,  and  many  an  Elizabethan  play  has  less 
unity  of  action.  Rosamond,  which  is  also  included  in  this 
first  volume,  is  a  much  slighter  affair.  It  is  a  dramatic 
sketch  in  five  scenes,  alternating  between  the  king's 
palace  at  Shene  and  the  bower  at  Woodstock,  and 
deaUng  with  the  secret  love  of  Henry  II  and  the  venge- 
ance taken  by  his  jealous  queen.  An  interesting  com- 
parison might  be  made  between  this  work  and  Tenny- 
son's Beckety  in  which  the  same  theme  receives  episodic 
treatment. 


31ntroDuction  xi 

Swinburne's  chief  dramatic  work  is  the  great  trilogy 
which  occupied  his  attention  for  a  score  of  years,  and 
which  has  for  its  central  figure  the  ill-starred  Queen  of 
Scots.  Here  was  a  subject  magnificently  fitted  for 
tragic  uses,  and  appealing  with  peculiar  force  to  a  poet 
whose  own  ancestors  had  fought  and  bled  in  the  Stuart 
cause.  And  so  the  woman  whose  figure  had  been  the 
**  red  star  of  boyhood's  fiery  thought  "  occupied  the 
best  years  of  the  poet's  manhood  with  an  endeavor  to 
set  forth  her  varied  fortunes  in  a  drama  of  colossal 
plan,  and  to  embody  in  the  characterization  something 
of  the  **love  and  wonder"  with  which  her  memory 
had  inspired  the  **  April  age  "  of  his  youth.  Chaste- 
lardy  the  first  section  of  the  trilogy,  was  published  in 
1865,  but  its  writing  dates,  at  least  in  part,  from  an 
earlier  period.  In  his  Adieux  a  Marie  Stuart y  writ- 
ten after  the  completion  of  the  trilogy  in  1 881,  Swin- 
burne speaks  of  **the  song  .  .  .  that  took  your 
praise  up  twenty  years  ago,"  and  in  the  Dedicatory 
Epistle  already  mentioned  he  calls  Chaste  lard  a  play 
**  conceived  and  partly  written  by  a  youngster  not  yet 
emancipated  from  servitude  to  college  rule."  He  fur- 
ther says,  after  disclaiming  any  ascription  to  his  earlier 
volume  of  **  power  to  grapple  with  the  realities  and 
subtleties  of  character  and  of  motive,"  that  in  Chaste- 
lard  **  there  are  two  figures  and  a  sketch  in  which  I 
certainly  seem  to  see  something  of  real  and  evident 
life." 

The  figures  here  referred  to  are,  it  is  hardly  neces- 
sary to  state,  those  of  the  Queen  and  of  the  poet-lover 
who  has   come  with  her  from    France  to    Scotland, 


xii  31ntroUuction 

while  the  sketch  is  that  of  Darnley.  In  the  play,  the 
Queen  weds  Darnley  as  an  immediate  consequence  of 
her  imagined  discovery  of  Chastelard's  unfaithfulness, 
whereas  the  historical  fact  is  that  the  marriage  did  not 
take  place  until  more  than  two  years  after  the  execu- 
tion of  Chastelard.  The  four  women  who  are  the 
personal  attendants  of  Mary  Stuart,  and  who  are 
known  in  Scotch  romance  and  minstrelsy  as  **the 
Queen's  Maries,"  figure  prominently  in  Chastelard, 
and  the  motive  of  the  tragedy  is  provided  by  the 
Queen's  belief  that  her  lover  has  played  her  false  with 
one  of  them.  In  a  sense,  the  motive  of  the  entire 
trilogy  is  thus  provided,  for  this  woman,  Mary  Bea- 
ton, loves  Chastelard,  although  her  affection  is  unre- 
quited. And  when,  twenty-five  years  after  his  death, 
her  mistress  expiates  upon  the  scaffold  at  Fotheringay 
the  accumulated  errors  and  crimes  of  a  lifetime,  the 
direct  agency  in  bringing  about  the  tragic  consumma- 
tion is  this  same  Mary  Beaton,  who  has  for  all  these 
years  in  silent  persistency  guarded  her  secret  and  cher- 
ished her  vengeful  purpose.  Chastelard  meets  his  fate 
as  a  **  verray  parfit  gentil  knight,"  breathing  no  word 
of  reproach  upon  the  Queen's  fame,  and  taking  upon 
himself  the  entire  burden  of  their  common  guilt.  The 
closing  scenes  are  dark  with  foreshadowings  of  what  is 
to  come  in  after  years.  Says  the  Queen,  alone  with  her 
doomed  lover  for  the  last  time  : 


"  1  am  quite  sure 
I  shall  die  sadly  some  day,  Chastelard, 
I  am  quite  certain. ' '  Act  v,  Scene  a. 


31ntroi)uction  xiii 

And  Chastelard  : 

**  Men  must  love  you  in  life's  spite ; 
For  you  will  always  kill  them,  man  by  man 
Your  lips  will  bite  them  dead  j  yea,  though  you  would, 
You  shall  not  spare  them  j  all  will  die  of  you." 

Act  V,  Scene  2. 

And  Mary  Beaton,  pleading  for  Chastelard*  s  life  : 

"  If  you  do  slay  him  you  are  but  shamed  to  death  : 
All  men  will  cry  upon  you,  women  weep, 
Turning  your  sweet  name  bitter  with  their  tears  j 
Red  shame  grow  up  out  of  your  memory 
And  burn  his  face  that  would  speak  well  of  you  j 
You  shall  have  no  good  word  nor  pity,  none, 
Till  some  such  end  be  fallen  upon  you." 

Act  IV,  Scene  I. 

And  the  prayer  of  Mary  Beaton,  when  the  headsman 
has  done  his  work,  and  the  cry,  **  So  perish  the  Queen's 
traitors  ! ' '  goes  up  from  the  multitude,  is  this  : 

"  Yea,  but  so 
Perish  the  Queen  !    God  do  thus  much  to  her 
For  his  sake  only  :  yea,  for  pity's  sake 
Do  this  much  with  her."  Act  v.  Scene  3. 

Thus  the  tragedy  closes,  heavy  with  the  sense  that 
somewhere  in  the  dim  future  it  will  be  complemented 
by  another  and  more  resounding  tragedy,  and  the  ends 
of  a  retributive  justice  be  accomplished.  It  is  evident 
that  the  entire  trilogy  was  outlined  in  some  shape  in 
the  poet's  consciousness  before  the  completion  of  this 
introductory  section. 

Botbwellt  the  second  section  of  the  trilogy,  did  not 
appear  until  1874,  which  means  that  nearly  ten  of 
Swinburne's  most  virile  years  went  to  its  composition. 


xiv  31ntroDuction 

It  covers  a  period  of  a  little  more  than  two  years,  from 
March  9,  1566,  to  May  16,  1568,  —  that  is,  from 
the  assassination  of  Rizzio  to  the  escape  of  the  Queen 
into  England  after  the  battle  of  Langside.  The  five 
acts  are  respectively  entitled  David  Rizzio y  Bothwelly 
Jane  Gordon^  John  Knox,  and  The  Queen.  The  first 
act  deals  with  the  conspiracy  for  the  removal  of  the 
Queen's  Italian  favorite,  and  ends  with  his  being  dragged 
from  her  helpless  presence  to  death  at  the  hands  of 
Darnley  and  his  fellow  assassins.  In  the  second  act, 
Bothwell,  whose  advent  into  the  Queen's  life  had  been 
ominously  heralded  at  the  very  close  of  Chastelardy 
and  whose  ambitious  passion  for  Mary  was  already 
kindled,  although  he  had  but  recently  been  wedded 
to  Jane  Gordon,  becomes  the  central  figure.  Nearly 
a  year  is  covered  by  this  act,  and  the  events  are  the 
Queen's  escape,  with  Bothwell' s  aid,  from  her  self- 
constituted  guardians,  the  flight  and  outlawry  of  Rizzio's 
slayers,  the  birth  of  the  child  who  was  afterwards  to 
become  James  I  of  England,  the  investment  of  Both- 
well  with  titles  and  estates,  and  the  plot  against  Darn- 
ley,  now  hated  by  all  parties  alike  for  his  treachery 
and  double-dealing.  The  act  ends  with  his  ignomini- 
ous death  at  his  lonely  lodgings  in  Kirk  of  Field.  In 
the  third  act,  Bothwell,  who  is  denounced  on  every 
hand  as  the  murderer  of  Darnley,  is  protected  from 
popular  vengeance  by  the  Queen,  who  becomes  more 
shameless  than  ever  in  her  intercourse  with  him.  Then 
follows  his  farcical  trial  and  acquittal  for  lack  of  evi- 
dence, his  further  advancement  in  power  and  wealth, 
his  divorce  from  Lady  Jane  Gordon,  whom  he  had 


3|ntroDuction  xv 

wedded  only  the  year  before,  his  marriage  with  the 
Queen,  his  flight  with  her  to  the  refuge  of  Borthwick 
Castle,  the  siege  and  capture  of  the  castle  by  the  confed- 
erated lords,  and  Both  well's  escape,  followed  by  that 
of  the  Queen  in  the  disguise  of  a  page.  The  fourth  act 
opens  with  the  array  of  the  opposing  forces  at  Carberry 
Hill,  followed  by  proposals  and  counter-proposals  to 
settle  the  engagement  by  single  combat,  and  the  final 
agreement  that  Bothwell  shall  retire  unmolested  while 
the  Queen  remains  a  prisoner.  Here,  after  a  passion- 
ate scene  of  parting,  Bothwell  disappears  from  the 
Queen's  sight  forever,  fleeing  into  exile,  and  imprison- 
ment, and  ignominy.  The  following  scenes  show  us 
the  Queen  at  Edinburgh  in  the  hands  of  her  captors, 
and  John  Knox  in  the  High  Street  denouncing  her  in 
what  is  probably  the  longest  uninterrupted  speech  to  be 
found  anywhere  in  dramatic  literature,  a  speech  of 
something  like  four  hundred  verses.  At  the  close  of 
this  act  the  Queen  is  about  to  be  conveyed  to  the  island 
castle  of  Lochleven,  which  has  been  chosen  as  the 
safest  available  place  for  her  bestowal.  In  the  fifth  act, 
we  have  the  forced  abdication  of  the  Queen  in  favor 
of  her  infant  son,  and  her  consent  to  the  regency  of 
Murray,  her  half-brother.  Then  follows  her  escape 
from  her  island-prison,  the  rallying  of  her  scattered 
friends  to  her  defence,  her  final  stand  and  disastrous 
defeat  at  Langside,  her  flight  to  the  border,  and  her 
last  view,  standing  on  the  shores  of  Solway  Firth,  of 
her  native  land.  The  closing  words  of  the  drama  are 
those  with  which  she  goes  into  her  life-long  exile,  and 
give  expression,  robed  in  the  utmost  magnificence  of 


xvi  3(|ntroDuction 

poetic  diction,  to  the  passionate  resolution  with  which 
she  confronts  the  future,  and  looks  to  it  for  the  requital 
of  all  the  wrong  that  has  been  done  her,  and  all  the 
shame  that  has  been  wrought  upon  her  during  her  seven 
years'  sojourn  in  Scotland. 

"  Methinks  the  sand  yet  cleaving  to  my  foot 
Should  not  with  no  more  words  be  shaken  off, 
Nor  this  my  country  from  my  parting  eyes 
Pass  unsaluted  ;  for  who  knows  what  year 
May  see  us  greet  hereafter  ?  Yet  take  heed, 
Ye  that  have  ears,  and  hear  me ;  and  take  note, 
Ye  that  have  eyes,  and  see  with  what  last  looks 
Mine  own  take  leave  of  Scotland  ;  seven  years  since 
Did  I  take  leave  of  my  fair  land  of  France, 
My  joyous  mother,  mother  of  my  joy, 
Weeping  5  and  now  with  many  a  woe  between 
And  space  of  seven  years'  darkness,  I  depart 
From  this  distempered  and  unnatural  earth 
That  casts  me  out  unmothered,  and  go  forth 
On  this  gray  sterile  bitter  gleaming  sea 
With  neither  tears  nor  laughter,  but  a  heart 
That  from  the  softest  temper  of  its  blood 
Is  turned  to  fire  and  iron.     If  I  live, 
If  God  pluck  not  all  hope  out  of  my  hand. 
If  aught  of  all  mine  prosper,  I  that  go 
Shall  come  back  to  men's  ruin,  as  a  flame 
The  wind  bears  down,  that  grows  against  the  wind, 
And  grasps  it  with  great  hands,  and  wins  its  way. 
And  wins  its  will,  and  triumphs  ;  so  shall  I 
Let  loose  the  fire  of  all  my  heart  to  feed 
On  these  that  would  have  quenched  it.     I  will  make 
From  sea  to  sea  one  furnace  of  the  land, 
Whereon  the  wind  of  war  shall  beat  its  wings 
Till  they  wax  faint  with  hopeless  hope  of  rest. 
And  with  one  rain  of  men's  rebellious  blood 
Extinguish  the  red  embers.     I  will  leave 
No  living  soul  of  their  blaspheming  faith 


31ntroDuction  xvii 

Who  war  with  monarchs  :   God  shall  see  me  reign 
As  he  shall  reign  beside  me,  and  his  foes 
Lie  at  my  foot  with  mine  ;  kingdoms  and  kings 
Shall  from  my  heart  take  spirit,  and  at  my  soul 
Their  souls  be  kindled  to  devour  for  prey 
The  people  that  would  make  its  prey  of  them, 
And  leave  God's  altar  stripped  of  sacrament 
As  all  kings'  heads  of  sovereignty,  and  make 
Bare  as  their  thrones  his  temples ;   I  will  set 
Those  old  things  of  his  holiness  on  high 
That  are  brought  low,  and  break  beneath  my  feet 
These  new  things  of  men's  fashion  ;  I  will  sit 
And  see  tears  flow  from  eyes  that  saw  me  weep, 
And  dust  and  ashes  and  the  shadow  of  death 
Cast  from  the  block  beneath  the  axe  that  falls 
On  heads  that  saw  me  humbled  ;  I  will  do  it. 
Or  bow  mine  own  down  to  no  royal  end, 
And  give  my  blood  for  theirs  if  God's  will  be, 
But  come  back  never  as  I  now  go  forth 
With  but  the  hate  of  men  to  track  my  way, 
And  not  the  face  of  any  friend  alive. ' ' 

Thus  ends  a  work  which  has  the  distinction  of  being 
not  only  the  longest  of  Swinburne's  dramas,  but  also  the 
longest  production  of  its  class  in  the  whole  of  English 
literature.  The  five  acts  are  divided  into  sixty  scenes, 
and  comprise  nearly  fifteen  thousand  lines  of  blank 
verse.  The  dramatis  personae  number  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  sixty,  each  one  of  whom  is  a  character  occu- 
pying a  definite  niche,  if  not  a  pedestal,  in  the  history 
of  that  troublous  time.  The  author's  own  comment 
upon  Bothwell  is  as  follows  :  **That  ambitious,  con- 
scientious, and  comprehensive  piece  of  work  is  of  course 
less  properly  definable  as  a  tragedy  than  by  the  old 
Shakespearean  term  of  a  chronicle-history.   .    .    .   This 


xviii  3|ntroUuction 

play  of  mine  was  not,  I  think,  inaccurately  defined  as 
an  epic  drama  in  the  French  verses  of  dedication  which 
were  acknowledged  by  the  greatest  of  all  French  poets 
in  a  letter  from  which  I  dare  only  quote  one  line  of 
Olympian  judgment  and  godHke  generosity.  *  Occu- 
per  ces  deux  cimes,  cela  n'est  donne  qu'a  vous.' 
Nor  will  I  refrain  from  the  confession  that  I  cannot 
think  it  an  epic  or  a  play  in  which  any  one  part  is  sac- 
rificed to  any  other,  any  subordinate  figure  mishandled 
or  neglected  or  distorted  or  effaced  for  the  sake  of  the 
predommant  and  central  person.  And  though  this  has 
nothing  or  less  than  nothing  to  do  with  any  question 
of  poetic  merit  or  demerit,  of  dramatic  success  or  un- 
success,  I  will  add  that  I  took  as  much  care  and  pains 
as  though  I  had  been  writing  or  compiling  a  history  of 
the  period  to  do  loyal  justice  to  all  the  historic  figures 
which  came  within  the  scope  of  my  dramatic  or  poetic 
design.  There  is  not  one  which  I  have  designedly 
altered  or  intentionally  modified  :  it  is  of  course  for 
others  to  decide  whether  there  is  one  which  is  not  the 
living  likeness  of  an  actual  or  imaginable  man." 

Before  leaving  Bothwell  for  a  discussion  of  Mary 
Stuart y  two  contemporary  judgments  may  be  quoted, 
both  framed  within  a  year  of  its  publication.  E.  C. 
Stedman  said  of  it  :  **I  agree  with  them  who  de- 
clare that  Swinburne,  by  this  massive  and  heroic  com- 
position, has  placed  himself  in  the  front  line  of  our 
poets,  that  no  one  can  be  thought  his  superior  in  true 
dramatic  power.  The  work  not  only  is  large,  but  writ- 
ten in  a  large  manner.  It  seems  deficient  in  contrasts, 
especially  needing  the  relief  which  humor,  song,  and 


3fIntroUuction  xix 

by-play  afford  to  a  tragic  plot.  But  it  is  a  great  histor- 
ical poem,  cast  in  a  dramatic  rather  than  epic  form,  for 
the  sake  of  stronger  analysis  and  dialogue.  Considered 
as  a  dramatic  epic,  it  has  no  parallel,  and  is  replete  with 
proofs  of  laborious  study  and  faithful  use  of  the  rich 
materials  afforded  by  the  theme.  .  .  .  Bothwell  ex- 
hibits no  excess  but  that  of  length,  and  no  mannerism  ; 
on  the  contrary,  a  superb  manner,  and  a  ripe,  pure,  and 
majestic  style."  '  J.  A.  Symonds  wrote  of  it  in  these 
terms :  **  It  is  surely  a  wonderful  work  of  art.  I  do 
not  think  anything  greater  has  been  produced  in  our 
age,  in  spite  of  its  inordinate  length  and  strange  affect- 
ation of  style.  However,  one  reads  one's  self  into  a 
sympathy  with  his  use  of  language,  and  then  the  sus- 
tained effort  of  thought  and  imagination  is  overpower- 
ing in  its  splendour.  It  seems  to  me  the  most  virile 
exercise  of  the  poetic  power  in  combination  with  his- 
toric accuracy  that  our  literature  of  this  century  can 
show."  2 

The  completion  of  the  dramatic  trilogy  is  given  us 
in  Mary  Stuart ^  which  appeared  in  1 88 1 .  This  drama 
is  hardly  more  than  one  third  the  length  of  Bothwelly 
and  requires  only  about  half  as  many  characters  for  its 
unfolding.  When  it  opens,  over  eighteen  years  have 
elapsed  since  the  Queen  crossed  Solway  Firth,  and  she 
is  now  within  a  few  months  of  her  doom.  Exactly 
stated,  the  period  of  the  play  is  from  August  4,  1586, 
to  February  8,  i  587.    It  opens  with  the  Babington  con- 

*    Victorian  Poets,  revised  edition  (1887),  p.  406. 
^  John   Addington    Symonds:    A  Biography.     H.    F.    Brown, 
p.  301. 


XX  31ntroDuctton 

spiracy  —  the  last  of  the  many  plots  against  Elizabeth 
and  the  commonwealth  to  which  the  captive  Queen  set 
her  hand  —  and  deals  in  swift  succession  with  the  cap- 
ture and  punishment  of  the  conspirators,  the  trial  of  Mary 
for  complicity  in  their  design,  her  conviction  of  blood- 
guiltiness,  the  hesitation  of  Elizabeth  to  give  effect  to  the 
judgment  thereupon  pronounced,  the  eventual  signing 
of  the  death-warrant,  and  the  execution  at  Fotherin- 
gay  Castle.  The  immediate  motive  of  this  tragic  con- 
summation is  provided,  as  has  already  been  stated, 
through  the  agency  of  Mary  Beaton — that  one  of  the 
Queen's  Maries  who  had  been  her  constant  companion 
during  all  her  years  of  triumph  and  defeat,  in  Scotland 
and  in  England.  Mary  Beaton  has  never  forgotten  that 
she  loved  Chastelard,  and  has  never  forgiven  the  Queen 
for  allowing  him  to  go  to  his  execution  without  an  ef- 
fort to  save  him.  As  the  years  pass  by,  the  sharpness  of 
her  desire  to  avenge  his  death  becomes  dulled,  or  rather 
that  desire  becomes  transformed  into  a  sort  of  prophetic 
sense  —  voiced  over  and  over  again  in  the  tragic  crises  of 
the  history  — that  she  shall  never  leave  the  side  of  her 
mistress  until  the  consequences  of  that  deed  shall  some- 
how recoil  upon  the  doer,  and  cause  the  Queen  to  expiate 
with  her  own  life  the  bloodshed  of  her  old-time  lover. 
This  attitude  of  passive  expectation  is  maintained  by 
Mary  Beaton  until  near  the  end,  when  judgment  has  been 
pronounced  upon  the  Queen,  and  her  Hfe  is  hanging  in 
the  balance.  Then  the  old  vengeful  instinct  stirs  once 
more,  and  the  maid  tips  the  scale  against  her  mistress. 
The  means  of  vengeance  are  in  her  possession,  for  she  has 
preserved  for  years  a  letter  written  in  bitter  mood  by 


3!ntroDuction  xxi 

Mary  Stuart  to  Elizabeth  and  given  to  the  maid  to  destroy 
—  a  letter  recounting  in  the  guise  of  friendly  warning  cer- 
tain unspeakable  allegations  against  Elizabeth's  character 
gathered  from  the  Countess  of  Shrewsbury.  This  letter 
(well  known  to  historians  as  one  of  the  documents  in 
the  case)  is  now  despatched  to  Elizabeth,  who  is  in- 
flamed to  fury  upon  reading  it,  and  at  once  signs  the 
death-warrant. 

This  invention,  so  richly  justified  by  the  artistic  unity 
which  it  bestows  upon  the  trilogy  taken  as  a  whole,  is 
one  of  the  very  few  departures  that  Swinburne  has  made 
from  exact  historical  truth  in  dealing  with  the  history  of 
the  Queen  of  Scots.  He  has  not  been  guilty,  he  says, 
of  **  any  conscious  violation  of  historical  chronology, 
except  —  to  the  best  of  my  recollection  —  in  two  in- 
stances :  the  date  of  Mary's  second  marriage,  and  the 
circumstances  of  her  last  interview  with  John  Knox. 
I  held  it  as  allowable  to  anticipate  by  two  years  the 
event  of  Darnley's  nuptials,  or  in  other  words  to  post- 
pone for  two  years  the  event  of  Chastelard'  s  execution, 
as  to  compile  or  condense  into  one  dramatic  scene  the 
details  of  more  than  one  conversadon  recorded  by  Knox 
between  Mary  and  himself."  One  has  only  to  read 
Swinburne's  memoir  of  Mary  Stuart  in  the  Encyclopae- 
dia Britannica  to  realize  with  what  scrupulous  care  he 
has  dramatized  the  facts  of  her  career.  The  very  fact 
that  he  should  have  been  chosen  as  the  man  best  fitted 
to  prepare  that  memoir  affords  convincing  evidence  of 
the  thoroughness  of  the  historical  scholarship  which  he 
brought  to  the  writing  of  his  greatest  dramadc  work. 

The  character  of  Mary  Stuart  has  been,  and  will  con- 


xxii  3(ltttrot)uttion 

tinue  to  be,  one  of  the  insoluble  problems  of  history. 
The  almost  endless  controversies  of  which  it  has  been 
the  subject  are  a  natural  consequence  of  the  strong  re- 
ligious, political,  and  personal  partisanships  to  which 
she  and  her  cause  excited  the  men  of  her  own  time. 
And  these  controversies  still  range  men  into  opposing 
parties  through  the  persistence  of  the  passions  which 
they  involve.  The  documentary  evidence,  moreover, 
upon  which  determination  of  the  points  at  issue  must 
be  founded,  is  hopelessly  entangled  in  a  mesh  of  forgery 
and  fabrication  and  falsehood.  Again,  many  matters 
of  importance  rest  upon  circumstantial  evidence  alone, 
for  the  dark  statecraft  of  those  days  pursued  devious 
ways,  and  was  careful  to  conceal  its  tracks,  as  far  as  it 
was  humanly  possible  so  to  do.  In  such  a  case  the  in- 
sight of  the  poet  may  well  prove  a  safer  reliance  than 
the  industry  of  the  historian  ;  at  all  events,  the  Mary 
Stuart  that  Swinburne  has  constructed  for  us  is  given 
the  consistency  of  a  product  of  the  creative  imagina- 
tion, and  this  without  doing  any  serious  violence  to  the 
historical  record.  As  an  elaborate  piece  of  portraiture 
it  is  artistically  convincing,  and  at  the  same  time  it  is 
based  in  every  feature  upon  what  is  at  least  a  reason- 
able interpretation  of  the  disputed  conditions. 

Swinburne's  conception  of  his  heroine  may  best  be 
illustrated  by  a  few  quotations  from  the  trilogy.  It  is 
John  Knox  who  thus  describes  her  : 

"Her  soul 
Is  as  a  flame  of  fire,  insatiable, 
And  subtle  as  thin  water  j  with  her  craft 
Is  passion  mingled  so  inseparably 


3(|ntroDuctton  xxiii 

That  each  gets  strength  from  other,  her  swift  wit 

By  passion  being  enkindled  and  made  hot, 

And  by  her  wit  her  keen  and  passionate  heart 

So  tempered  that  it  burn  itself  not  out, 

Consuming  to  no  end,"  Bothivell,  Act  i.  Scene  2. 

The  Queen  herself,  in  a  scene  with  Bothwell,  is 
moved  by  an  approaching  storm  to  this  revealing  utter- 
ance : 

"  I  never  loved  the  windless  weather,  nor 
The  dead  face  of  the  water  in  the  sun ; 
I  had  rather  the  live  wave  leapt  under  me, 
And  fits  of  foam  struck  light  on  the  dark  air, 
And  the  sea's  kiss  were  keen  upon  my  lip 
And  bold  as  love's  and  bitter  ;  then  my  soul 
Is  a  wave  too  that  springs  against  the  light 
And  beats  and  bursts  with  one  great  strain  of  joy 
As  the  sea  breaking.    You  said  well,  this  light 
Is  like  shed  blood  spilt  here  by  drops  and  there 
That  overflows  the  red  brims  of  the  cloud 
And  stains  the  moving  water  :  yet  the  waves 
Pass,  and  the  split  light  of  the  broken  sun 
Rests  not  upon  them  but  a  minute's  space ; 
No  longer  should  a  deed,  methinks,  once  done 
Endure  upon  the  life  of  memory 
To  stain  the  days  thereafter  with  remorse 
And  mar  the  better  seasons." 

Bothivell,  Act  11,  Scene  6. 

In  the  following  words,  placed  upon  the  lips  of  Sir 
Drew  Drury,  one  of  the  nobler  of  her  enemies,  we 
may  clearly  read  Swinburne's  own  estimate  of  Mary 
Stuart's  character  : 

"  Nay,  myself 
Were  fain  to  see  this  coil  wound  up,  and  her 
Removed  that  makes  it  :   yet  such  things  will  pluck 
Hard  at  men's  hearts  that  think  on  them,  and  move 


xxiv  idntroDucdon 

Compassion  that  such  long  strange  years  should  find 

So  strange  an  end  :  nor  shall  men  ever  say 

But  she  was  born  right  royal  ;  full  of  sins, 

It  may  be,  and  by  circumstance  or  choice 

Dyed  and  defaced  with  bloody  stains  and  black, 

Unmerciful,  unfaithful,  but  of  heart 

So  fiery  high,  so  swift  of  spirit  and  clear, 

In  extreme  danger  and  pain  so  lifted  up, 

So  of  all  violent  things  inviolable, 

So  large  of  courage,  so  superb  of  soul, 

So  sheathed  with  iron  mind  invincible 

And  arms  unbreached  of  fire-proof  constancy  — 

By  shame  not  shaken,  fear  or  force  or  death, 

Change,  or  all  confluence  of  calamities  — 

And  so  at  her  worst  need  beloved,  and  still 

Naked  of  help  and  honour  when  she  seemed. 

As  other  women  would  be,  and  of  hope 

Stripped,  still  so  of  herself  adorable 

By  minds  not  always  all  ignobly  mad 

Nor  all  made  poisonous  with  false  grain  of  faith, 

She  shall  be  a  world's  wonder  to  all  time, 

A  deadly  glorj-  watched  of  marvelling  men 

Not  without  praise,  not  without  noble  tears. 

And  if  without  what  she  would  never  have 

Who  had  it  never,  pity  —  yet  from  none 

Quite  without  reverence  and  some  kind  of  love 

For  that  which  was  so  royal. ' ' 

Mary  Stuart,  Act  iv,  Scene  2. 

This  conception  of  Mary*s  character  is  reinforced 
by  many  passages  in  Swinburne's  Britannic  a  memoir, 
and  in  his  Note  on  the  Character  of  Mary  ^een  of 
Scots y  both  printed  in  the  volume  of  prose  Miscellanies. 
Himself  a  partisan  of  the  Queen  in  respect  of  those  traits 
which  are  admirable  in  themselves  wherever  found,  her 
defender  as  far  as  consistency  with  the  belief  that  her 
crimes  were  great  and  her  doom  righteous  permits,  he 


31ntroDuction  xxv 

has  only  scorn  for  those  who  defend  her  at  the  expense  of 
her  intelligence  and  courage.  **  To  vindicate  her  from 
the  imputations  of  her  vindicators  "  is  his  purpose,  im- 
plicit in  the  trilogy,  clearly  expressed  in  the  vigorous  prose 
which  serves  the  poem  by  way  of  appendix.  Whatever 
opinion  a  rational  mind  may  form  concerning  the  Queen 
of  Scots,  it  cannot  possibly  be  such  an  opinion  as  her 
more  zealous  champions  entertain,  as  embodied  in  the 
theorem  *'  that  a  woman  whose  intelligence  was  below 
the  average  level  of  imbecility,  and  whose  courage  was 
below  the  average  level  of  a  coward's,  should  have  suc- 
ceeded throughout  the  whole  course  of  a  singularly  restless 
and  adventurous  career  in  imposing  herself  upon  the  judg- 
ment of  every  man  and  every  woman  with  whom  she 
ever  came  into  any  sort  or  kind  of  contact,  as  a  person 
of  the  most  briUiant  abilities  and  the  most  dauntless  dar- 
ing." And  yet  to  some  such  position  as  this  those  are 
driven  who  contend  that  she  had  no  complicity  in  the 
murder  of  Darnley,  that  she  was  forced  into  the  mar- 
riage with  Bothwell  by  **  an  unscrupulous  oligarchy,** 
and  that  she  was  innocent  of  the  plots  to  strike  at  the 
life  of  Elizabeth.  Swinburne's  final  word  upon  the 
whole  subject  may  be  found  in  the  following  passages  : 
'*  For  her  own  freedom  of  will  and  of  way,  of  passion 
and  of  action,  she  cared  much  ;  for  her  creed  she  cared 
something,  for  her  country  she  cared  less  than  nothing. ' ' 
'*  Considered  from  any  possible  point  of  view,  the 
tragic  story  of  her  Hfe  in  Scotland  admits  but  of  one 
interpretation  which  is  not  incompatible  with  the  im- 
pression she  left  on  all  friends  and  all  foes  ahke.  And 
this  interpretation  is   simply  that  she  hated  Darnley 


xxvi  3|ntroliuction 

with  a  passionate  but  justifiable  hatred,  and  loved  Both- 
well  with  a  passionate  but  pardonable  love.  For  the 
rest  of  her  career  I  cannot  but  think  that  whatever 
w^as  evil  and  ignoble  in  it  was  the  work  of  education 
or  of  circumstance  ;  whatever  was  good  and  noble,  the 
gift  of  nature  or  of  God." 

It  is  not  likely  that  Swinburne's  full-length  por- 
traiture of  the  Queen  of  Scots,  as  exhibited  in  the  trilogy 
taken  as  a  whole,  will  ever  be  rivalled.  He  has  done 
the  work  once  for  all,  with  such  subtlety  of  delineation, 
firmness  of  grasp,  and  breadth  of  historical  outlook,  as 
to  discourage  any  future  attempt  to  deal  with  the  same 
subject  in  an  imaginative  way.  Past  attempts  of  this 
sort  have  been  numerous,  but  the  best  of  them  by  com- 
parison are  fragmentary  and  inadequate.  Scott,  in  The 
Abbot,  dealt  only  with  the  episode  of  Lochleven  Castle 
and  its  immediate  consequences  ;  Alfieri,  in  Maria 
Stuarda,  with  the  murder  of  Darnley  alone,  seeking  to 
clear  the  Queen  of  complicity  in  that  crime  ;  Schiller, 
in  Maria  Stuart,  with  the  closing  days  of  her  life  in 
Fotheringay  Castle  ;  and  Bjornson,  in  Maria  Stuart  i 
Skotlandy  with  the  period  from  the  assassination  of 
Rizzio  to  the  marriage  with  Bothwell.  These  are  the 
most  important  of  the  earlier  works  that  have  chosen 
Mary  Stuart  for  imaginative  treatment,  but  great  as  are 
the  names  attached  to  them,  they  sink  into  insigni- 
ficance when  compared  with  the  colossal  production 
which  is  the  crowning  work  of  Swinburne's  life. 

After  the  completion  of  Mary  Stuart,  Swinburne 
turned  his  attention  to  a  subject  already  distinguished 
in    English  poetry  by   Byron's   treatment,    and    pro- 


31ntrotiuction  xxvii 

duced  (1885)  the  five-act  tragedy  of  Marino  FalierOy 
his  most  important  dramatic  work,  aside  from  the  tri- 
logy above  described.  In  choosing  this  subject  he  was 
perhaps  to  some  extent  actuated  by  the  impulse  which 
impelled  Turner  to  bestow  upon  the  National  Gallery 
at  London  two  of  his  finest  works,  upon  the  condition 
that  they  should  be  hung  with  two  of  the  masterpieces 
of  Claude  Lorraine,  that  all  the  world  might  note  how 
the  English  artist  excelled  the  French  in  his  own  spe- 
cial domain.  Swinburne's  work  as  easily  excels  that 
of  Byron  in  all  points  except  possibly  that  of  fitness 
for  stage  presentation,  and  not  much  may  be  claimed 
for  either  play  upon  that  score.  Byron  was  at  his 
weakest  in  blank  verse  and  in  the  construction  of  trag- 
edy, while  in  these  directions  Swinburne  puts  forth  his 
greatest  strength.  Since  the  subject  of  this  tragedy  has 
the  additional  advantage  of  engaging  the  republican 
sympathy  and  impassioned  ardor  in  the  worship  of 
freedom  which  color  and  season  all  of  Swinburne's 
work,  it  is  not  strange  that  his  Marino  Faliero  should 
be  an  entirely  noble  and  inspiring  creation. 

The  historical  facts  have  been  closely  followed. 
The  insult  to  the  young  and  fair  wife  of  the  Doge, 
the  trivial  sentence  passed  upon  the  offender,  the  un- 
governable passion  of  Faliero  when  he  learns  of  this, 
the  proffered  and  accepted  leadership  in  the  popular 
conspiracy  and  the  arrest  of  those  implicated,  and  the 
final  judgment  pronounced  upon  the  noble  traitor,  suc- 
cessively claim  the  reader's  attention.  That  which  is 
characteristic  of  Swinburne's  presentation,  and  which, 
in  fact,  affords  the  keynote  of  his  conception,  is  the 


xxviii  JlntroUuction 

attitude  of  Faliero  when  reason  resumes  its  sway  over 
his  mind,  and  when  calm  reflection  justifies  with  him 
the  course  which  passion  has  initiated.  The  oppor- 
tunity for  revenge  being  offered  him  at  the  very  hour 
when  he  has  learned  how  lightly  the  patrician  tribunal 
holds  the  insult  done  him,  he  eagerly  grasps  it,  re- 
gardless of  the  future  ;  but  afterwards,  when  the  per- 
sonal motives  which  prompt  him  have  lost  their  force 
with  the  subsidence  of  his  anger,  he  is  held  to  his 
course  by  a  vivid  reaHzation  of  the  sufferings  of  the 
Venedan  people  at  the  hands  of  a  corrupt  and  unscru- 
pulous oligarchy.  The  mere  traitor  that  an  hour^s 
passion  has  made  of  him  becomes  merged  in  the  lib- 
erator of  the  republic  from  its  oppressors.  To  effect 
this  transition  in  such  a  way  as  to  attach  the  sympathy 
of  the  reader  to  Faliero' s  fortunes  at  the  last  was  the 
most  difficult  and  delicate  part  of  the  poet's  task. 
Without  discussing  the  historical  justice  of  this  con- 
ception, it  must  be  admitted  that  its  artistic  success  is 
brilliant.  In  the  scene  which  precedes  the  failure  of 
the  conspiracy,  as  well  as  in  the  judgment  scene  and 
that  which  follows  it,  the  person  of  Faliero  becomes 
transfigured,  and  the  divine  halo  of  the  deliverer  in- 
vests him  with  its  radiance. 

The  closing  scenes  rise  to  a  poetic  height  that  even 
Swinburne  does  not  often  reach.  These  are  the  words 
of  Faliero  to  his  nephew,  keeping  watch  with  him 
through  the  night  that  precedes  the  projected  uprising  : 

**  And  this  do  thou 
Know  likewise,  and  hold  fast,  that  if  to-day 
Dawn  rise  not,  but  the  darkness  drift  us  down, 
And  leave  our  hopes  as  wrecks  and  waifs  despised 


3|ntroUuction  xxix 

Of  men  that  walk  by  daylight,  not  with  us 

Shall  faith  decline  from  earth  or  justice  end, 

Or  freedom,  which  if  dead  should  bid  them  die, 

Rot,  though  the  works  and  very  names  of  us, 

And  all  the  fruit  we  looked  for,  nipped  of  winds 

And  gnawn  of  worms,  and  all  the  stem  that  bore. 

And  all  the  root,  wax  rotten.    Here  shall  be 

Freedom,  or  never  in  this  time-weary  world 

Justice,  nor  ever  shall  the  sunrise  know 

A  sight  to  match  the  morning,  nor  the  sea 

Hear  from  the  sound  of  living  souls  on  earth, 

Free  as  her  foam,  and  righteous  as  her  tides. 

Just,  equal,  aweless,  perfect,  even  as  she, 

A  word  to  match  her  music."  Act  iv.  Scene  i. 

This  prophecy  of  the  resurrection  of  Italy  becomes 
even  more  explicit  in  the  later  scene  in  which  Faliero, 
with  the  vision  that  comes  to  men  in  their  dying  hour, 
foretells  the  advent  of  Mazzini,  of 

<<The  man 
Supreme  of  spirit,  and  perfect,  and  unlike 
Me  :   for  the  tongue  that  bids  dark  death  arise. 
The  hand  that  takes  dead  freedom  by  the  hand 
And  lifts  up  living,  others  these  must  be 
Than  mine,  and  others  than  the  world,  I  think. 
Shall  bear  till  men  wax  worthier."  Act  v,  Scene  2. 

Faliero' s  last  words  are  these  : 

'  *  Be  not  faint  of  heart : 
I  go  not  as  a  base  man  goes  to  death. 
But  great  of  hope  :    God  cannot  will  that  here 
Some  day  shall  spring  not  freedom  :   nor  perchance 
May  we,  long  dead,  not  know  it,  who  died  of  love 
For  dreams  that  were  and  truths  that  were  not.    Come. 
Bring  me  but  toward  the  landing  whence  my  soul 
Sets  sail,  and  bid  God  speed  her  forth  to  sea." 

Act  V,  Scene  2. 


XXX  3|ntroDuction 

Thus  ends  a  masterpiece  of  dramatic  blank  verse  such 
as  no  other  English  poet  of  the  nineteenth  century  — 
save  only  Shelley  in  The  Cenci  —  has  surpassed  or  even 
equalled.  Compared  with  the  chronicle-history  of  the 
Queen  of  Scots,  it  even  has  a  certain  advantage  as  poetry, 
because  its  action  is  not  impeded  by  the  necessity  of 
faithfulness  to  the  minutiae  of  the  historical  situation. 

Nor  does  any  such  impediment  exist  in  the  case  of 
Locrine  (1887),  the  dramatic  successor  of  Marino  Fali- 
ero.  There  is  no  tangibility  whatever  to  the  legendary 
material  upon  which  this  drama  is  based,  unless  we 
allow  something  of  that  quality  to  have  been  bestowed 
upon  it  by  Comus,  or  by  the  anonymous  Elizabethan 
play  once  absurdly  attributed  to  Shakespeare  : 

'*  Dead  fancy's  ghost,  not  living  fancy's  wraith, 
Is  now  the  storied  sorrow  that  survives 
Faith  in  the  record  of  these  lifeless  lives. ' ' 

Dedication,  viii. 

The  story  is  that  of  Locrine,  the  mythical  King  of 
Britain,  and  his  secret  love  for  Estrild,  his  **  Scythian 
concubine."  It  is  the  dramatic  situation  of  Rosamond 
over  again,  with  the  difference  that  the  jealous  queen, 
instead  of  privately  doing  away  with  her  rival,  gathers 
an  army  and  makes  war  upon  her  unfaithful  spouse.  In 
the  end,  Locrine  is  slain,  Estrild  stabs  herself,  and  their 
daughter  Sabrina  plunges  into  the  Severn.  The  char- 
acter of  this  maiden  dear  to  many  English  poets,  this 

*'  Virgin,  daughter  of  Locrine, 
Sprung  from  old  Anchises'  line," 

is  delineated  with  loving  tenderness,  and  hers  is  the 
figure   that    Ungers   longest   in  the  memory.     Locrine 


31ntroauctton  xxxi 

occupies  a  unique  place  among  Swinburne's  tragedies 
on  account  of  its  form.  It  is  written,  not  in  blank  verse, 
but  in  a  variety  of  rhymed  pentameters.  One  scene 
is  a  succession  of  twelve  sonnets,  broken  only  by  a  pass- 
age of  interwoven  rhymes  ;  other  scenes  are  in  heroic 
couplets,  and  still  others  in  ottava  and  terza  rim  a.  It  is 
a  task  of  curious  interest  to  trace  these  various  rhyming 
combinations  through  the  drama,  and  perhaps  no  other 
work  of  Swinburne  is  as  remarkable  for  its  technical 
wizardry. 

Five  years  elapsed  before  Swinburne  produced  an- 
other play,  and  when  The  Sisters  (1892)  appeared,  it 
proved  surprisingly  unhke  any  of  its  predecessors.  It  is 
a  domestic  drama  of  the  early  nineteenth  century,  en- 
acted in  an  English  country-house.  The  hero  is  a  youth- 
ful soldier  just  returned  from  Waterloo.  The  two 
sisters  are  in  love  with  him,  and  when  he  has  declared 
himself  for  one  of  them,  the  other  poisons  both  him 
and  her  successful  rival.  There  is  a  play  within  the 
play,  for  the  entire  fourth  act  is  given  up  to  an  Italian 
dramatic  interlude  performed  by  the  leading  characters 
in  the  larger  work.  This  miniature  tragedy,  which  sup- 
plies the  suggestion  for  the  tragedy  that  is  realized  in  the 
closing  act  of  The  Sisters,  is  written  in  the  author's 
characteristic  vein  of  heightened  poetic  diction  ;  the 
rest  of  the  work  which  includes  it  is  written  in  a  simple 
and  colloquial  style  which  precludes  the  display  of 
poetic  power.  The  Sisters  is  more  successful  as  a  play 
than  as  a  poem,  for  it  exhibits  the  essentially  dramatic 
instinct  that  grasps  to  the  full  the  dramatic  possibilities 
of  each  moment  of  the  action,  and  that  determines  the 


xxxii  31ntroDuttion 

succession  of  events  with  clear  sight  of  the  coming  cli- 
max. The  author  himself  speaks  of  it  as  **  the  only- 
modern  English  play  I  know  in  which  realism  in  the 
reproduction  of  natural  dialogue  and  accuracy  in  the 
representation  of  natural  intercourse  between  men  and 
women  of  gentle  birth  and  breeding  have  been  found 
or  made  compatible  with  expression  in  genuine  if  simple 
blank  verse."  Nevertheless,  The  Sisters  must  be  re- 
garded as  the  least  significant  of  Swinburne's  dramas, 
and  as  a  production  almost  unworthy  of  his  genius. 

Rosamundy  Queen  of  the  Lombards  (1899),  is  the 
last  in  the  series  of  Swinburne's  tragedies.  He  speaks 
of  it  as  based  on  **a  subject  long  since  mishandled  by 
an  English  dramatist  of  all  but  the  highest  rank,  and 
one  which  in  later  days  Alfieri  had  commemorated  in 
a  magnificent  passage  of  a  wholly  unhistoric  and  some- 
what unsatisfactory  play."  The  works  here  referred  to 
are  Middleton's  The  Witch  and  Alfieri's  Rosmunda. 
The  Rosmunda  of  Giovanni  Rucellai,  a  much  earlier 
work,  might  have  been  added  to  this  list.  The  histor- 
ical framework  of  all  these  tragedies  may  most  conven- 
iently be  found  in  Gibbon,  in  whose  pages  we  read  how 
Rosamund,  daughter  of  the  Gepids,  espoused  Alboin, 
the  slayer  of  her  father,  how  she  was  forced  by  her 
husband  to  drink  wine  from  her  father's  skull,  and  how 
this  founder  of  the  Lombard  kingdom  fell  by  the  hand 
of  an  assassin,  whose  deed  was  instigated  by  the  treach- 
ery of  the  queen,  taking  thus  a  long-delayed  vengeance 
for  her  father's  death.  It  is  a  grim  tale,  and  Swinburne 
has  invested  it  with  all  the  pity,  terror,  and  tragic  irony 
which  it  demands.    The  diction  of  this  drama  is  marked 


31ntroliuction  xxxiii 

by  severe  restraint,  which  extends  also,  by  implication 
at  least,  to  the  demeanor,  to  the  very  gesture,  of  the 
actors  concerned.  The  brooding  storm  of  passion  is 
felt,  rather  than  heard  or  seen,  but  the  reader  is  not  un- 
prepared for  the  supreme  moment  in  w^hich  it  breaks. 
The  inevitable  fate  of  both  king  and  queen  is  so  fore- 
shadowed that  when  it  comes  upon  them  in  one  swift 
last  moment  of  the  action,  the  spirit  is  not  so  much 
aroused  as  calmed,  and  echoes  the  words  with  which, 
as  with  the  final  chorus  of  a  Greek  tragedy,  the  out- 
come is  characterized  in  this  single  verse  : 

"  Let  none  make  moan.  This  doom  is  none  of  man's." 
It  is  a  far  cry  from  the  Rosamond  of  Swinburne's 
first  volume  to  this  Rosamund  of  his  ripened  years. 
Although  the  poet's  outlook  upon  life  has  remained  sub- 
stantially unchanged,  and  the  leading  ideas  of  his  youth 
are  the  ideas  to  which  he  still  gives  expression,  the 
passing  years  have  by  imperceptible  degrees  so  trans- 
formed his  style  that  an  effective  contrast  may  be  made 
between  his  earlier  and  his  later  manner.  Here  speaks 
the  Rosamond  of  1861  : 

'  *  Fear  is  a  cushion  for  the  feet  of  love, 
Painted  with  colours  for  his  ease-taking  ; 
Sweet  red,  and  white  with  wasted  blood,  and  blue 
Most  flower-like,  and  the  summer-spoused  green 
And  sea-betrothed  soft  purple  and  burnt  black. 
All  coloured  forms  of  fear,  omen,  and  change, 
Sick  prophecy  and  rumours  lame  at  heel, 
Anticipations  and  astrologies, 
Perilous  inscription  and  recorded  note, 
All  these  are  covered  in  the  skirt  of  love, 
And  when  he  shakes  it  these  are  tumbled  forth, 
Beaten  and  blown  i'  the  dusty  face  of  the  air."  Act  I. 


xxxiv  JlntroOuction 

The  Rosamund  of  1899  yields  the  following  pass- 
age : 

**  Rosamund.    Kiss  me.    Who  knows  how  long  the  lord  of  life 
May  spare  us  time  for  kissing  ?    Life  and  love 
Are  less  than  change  and  death. 

Albo'vine.    What  ghosts  are  they  ? 

So  sweet  thou  never  wast  to  me  before. 

The  woman  that  is  God  —  the  God  that  is 

Woman  —  the  sovereign  of  the  soul  of  man, 

Our  fathers'  Freia,  Venus  crowned  in  Rome, 

Has  lent  my  love  her  girdle  5  but  her  lips 

Have  robbed  the  red  rose  of  its  heart,  and  left 

No  glory  for  the  flower  beyond  all  flowers 

To  bid  the  spring  be  glad  of.  * '  Act  in. 

Here  is  a  contrast  indeed  !  The  exuberance,  the 
color,  the  overwrought  imagery,  the  verbal  affluence, 
the  Shakespearean  diction,  of  the  earlier  work  have 
vanished,  and  in  their  place  we  have  sheer  simplicity  of 
vocabulary,  passion  intimated  rather  than  expressed, 
imagery  reduced  to  bare  metaphor,  and  a  diction  well- 
nigh  shorn  of  all  mannerisms.  Noting  the  vocabulary 
alone,  the  later  passage  offers  only  half  as  many  words 
of  more  than  one  syllable  as  are  found  in  the  earlier 
extract.  Here  is  a  still  more  striking  example  of  the 
reduction  of  vocabulary  to  its  lowest  terms  : 

"  I  take  thine  oath.    I  bid  not  thee  take  heed 
That  I  or  thou  or  each  of  us  at  once, 
Couldst  thou  play  false,  may  die  :   I  bid  thee  think 
Thy  bride  will  die,  shamed.    Swear  me  not  again 
She  shall  not  :   all  our  trust  is  set  on  thee. 
What  eyes  and  ears  are  keen  about  us  here 
Thou  knowest  not.    Lore,  my  love  and  thine  for  her, 
Shall  deafen  and  shall  blind  them."  Act  11. 


3|ncroDuction  xxxv 

In  this  passage  there  are  seventy-four  words,  and  all 
but  three  of  them  are  monosyllables.  Swinburne  has 
often  been  charged  with  a  lack  of  restraint ;  the  charge 
is  fairly  justified  by  some  of  his  earlier  poems,  but  it 
assuredly  does  not  lie  against  the  dramatic  work  of  his 
maturer  years.  Rosamund  exemplifies  the  very  extreme 
of  poetic  restraint. 

The  blank  verse  in  which  Swinburne's  tragedies 
(with  the  exception  of  Locrine')  are  cast  is  as  disdnct- 
ively  his  own  as  it  is  possible  for  such  verse  to  be.  A 
dramatic  poet  so  steeped  in  the  work  of  his  predecessors 
could  hardly  escape  an  occasional  echo,  and  the  Eliza- 
bethan influence  is  manifest  (although  in  ever-decreas- 
ing degree)  throughout  his  work.  In  his  immature 
first  volume,  that  influence  produces  such  lines  as  these: 

"  We  are  so  more  than  poor, 
The  dear'st  of  all  our  spoil  would  profit  you 
Less  than  mere  losing  ;  so  most  more  than  weak 
It  were  but  shame  for  one  to  smite  us,  who 
Could  but  weep  louder." 

The  Siueen  Mother^  Act  i,  Scene  I . 

This  is  nothing  less  than  Shakespearean  mimicry,  and 
other  passages  may  be  found  that  catch  the  very  trick 
of  Fletcher  or  of  Marlowe.  Scattered  through  the 
Mary  Stuart  trilogy  we  may  find  countless  examples 
of  phrases  turned  in  the  Elizabethan  manner,  as  well 
as  lines  that  bring  to  mind  such  modern  poets  as  Shel- 
ley and  Browning.  Nevertheless,  the  style  of  the  poet 
taken  as  a  whole  is  individual,  and,  whatever  doubt 
one  might  entertain  concerning  the  authorship  of  a  sin- 
gle line  or  a  brief  extract,  one  could  have  no  doubt 


xxxvi  31ntroUttction 

whatever  of  a  whole  page,  any  more  than  one  could 
be  puzzled  by  a  page  of  Browning  or  of  Tenny- 
son. And  this  dramatic  style,  which  reaches  its  high- 
est level  in  Bothwell  and  Mary  Stuart  and  Marino 
Faliero,  although  often  too  involved  and  elliptical  to 
make  the  easiest  of  reading,  has  a  beauty  of  cadence, 
a  gravity  of  movement,  and  a  nobility  of  diction  that 
may  be  matched  only  in  the  work  of  the  greater  Eng- 
lish poets. 

Dramatic  poetry  must  be  judged  according  to  the 
degree  of  its  excellence  in  the  three  elements  of  style, 
characterization,  and  construction.  Of  the  style  of 
Swinburne's  tragedies  something  has  just  been  said, 
and  the  foregoing  discussion  of  the  separate  works  has 
brought  forward  the  most  conspicuous  examples  of  his 
skill  in  portraiture.  His  delineation  of  Mary  Stuart  is 
a  masterpiece  of  subtle  penetration  into  the  inmost 
recesses  of  a  complex  nature,  and  his  conception  of  the 
historical  figures  by  which  hers  is  surrounded  affords 
further  evidence  of  his  insight  into  character.  His 
constructive  powers,  while  perhaps  most  clearly  ex- 
hibited in  the  dramas  whose  subject-matter  gave  him 
a  comparatively  free  hand,  were  put  to  their  severest 
test  in  the  historical  trilogy,  and  there  achieved  their 
most  signal  triumph.  To  give  artistic  symmetry  to 
each  of  the  separate  sections  of  that  work,  and  ar- 
tistic unity  to  the  whole,  while  keeping  the  historical 
facts  —  even  of  the  minuter  sort  —  all  the  time  strictly 
in  view,  was  a  task  to  daunt  the  most  courageous,  and 
its  successftil  performance  must  be  reckoned  among  the 
most  remarkable  feats  in  our  dramatic  literature. 


31ntrot)uction  xxxvii 

In  the  Dedicatory  Epistle  which  prefaces  his  col- 
lected poems,  and  from  which  numerous  quotations 
have  already  been  made  in  the  present  Introduction, 
Swinburne  says  this  of  his  plays  as  a  whole  :  *  *  Charles 
Lamb,  as  I  need  not  remind  you,  wrote  for  antiquity: 
nor  need  you  be  assured  that  when  I  write  plays  it  is 
with  a  view  to  their  being  acted  at  the  Globe,  the 
Red  Bull,  or  the  Black  Friars."  It  is  certain  that  they 
are  not  likely  to  be  acted  elsewhere,  under  the  condi- 
tions at  present  surrounding  the  English-speaking  stage, 
although  a  private  performance  of  Locrine  was  given 
in  London  a  few  years  ago,  and  other  tentative  and 
experimental  performances  may  occasionally  be  brought 
about.  It  is  interesting  to  inquire  why  these  works, 
and  other  works  of  their  class,  should  not  be  put  upon 
the  stage.  To  this  inquiry  there  are  two  wddely  differ- 
ent answers.  The  simplest  of  them,  while  a  super- 
ficial answer,  begging  the  question  at  issue,  is  found 
satisfying  to  many  writers  upon  the  drama.  It  is  that 
these  works  are  unfitted  for  the  stage.  This  is  true, 
no  doubt  ;  nevertheless,  the  answer  which  the  ques- 
tion demands  must  be  given  from  a  very  different  point 
of  view,  and  should  inform  us  that  the  stage  —  the 
English  stage  —  has  unfitted  itself  for  the  production 
of  these  plays,  or  of  any  plays  having  a  serious  literary 
value.  In  other  words,  the  stage,  turning  away  from 
its  great  early  tradition,  and  becoming  more  and  more 
a  vehicle  of  mere  entertainment,  less  and  less  a  medium 
for  the  investment  of  exalted  ideals  with  the  trappings 
of  actuality,  has  during  the  last  century  done  its  best  to 
divorce  itself  from  literature,  with  a  degree  of  success 


xxxviii  31ntroliuction 

of  which  its  present  pitiable  estate  affords  convincing 
evidence.  English  dramatic  poets,  on  the  other  hand, 
finding  themselves  unwelcome  in  the  playhouse,  have 
ceased  to  heed  its  requirements,  and  have  written  their 
plays  with  an  eye  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  reader  alone. 
There  has  thus  appeared  in  English  poetry  the  singu- 
lar phenomenon  of  the  closet  drama  —  a  species  of 
composition  which  does  not  exist  in  any  other  modern 
literature  to  anything  like  the  same  extent.  For  several 
generations  now  the  playhouse  and  the  poet  have  been 
completely  at  odds,  with  the  curious  result  that  our 
acting  plays  are  devoid  of  literary  quality,  while  the 
closet  drama  absorbs  all  the  energies  of  the  men  to 
whom  we  should  rightly  look  for  the  rehabilitation  of 
the  theatre.  Swinburne,  writing  of  his  own  Marino 
FalierOy  shows  a  clear  comprehension  of  the  contrast 
between  past  and  present  conditions,  when  he  says 
that  this  work,  **  hopelessly  impossible  as  it  is  from 
the  point  of  view  of  modern  stagecraft,  could  hardly 
have  been  found  too  untheatrical,  too  utterly  given 
over  to  thought  without  action,  by  the  audiences  which 
endured  and  applauded  the  magnificent  monotony  of 
Chapman's  eloquence  —  the  fervent  and  inexhaustible 
declamation  which  was  offered  and  accepted  as  a  sub- 
stitute for  study  of  character  and  interest  of  action 
when  his  two  finest  plays,  if  plays  they  can  be  called, 
found  favour  with  an  incredibly  intelligent  and  an  incon- 
ceivably tolerant  audience."  This  comparison  is  pos- 
sibly a  httle  forced,  and  is  not  altogether  ingenuous,  for 
Chapman's  plays  were  hardly  as  successful  as  Swin- 
burne would  have  us  believe,  and  what  success  they 


31ntroUuction  xxxix 

had  must  be  attributed  in  large  measure  to  the  melo- 
dramatic action  which  oiFsets  their  copious  philosophiz- 
ing. But  as  a  protest  against  the  narrowness  of  **  mod- 
ern stagecraft,'*  the  plea  at  least  deserves  a  respectful 
hearing. 

We  must  admit  the  closet  drama  to  be  a  fact  in  the 
development  of  modern  English  literature,  but  we  may- 
doubt  the  wisdom  of  calling  it  a  **  heresy,'*  as  Pro- 
fessor Brander  Matthews  does,  or  of  saying  with  him 
that  **  by  the  ill-advised  action  of  certain  English  poets 
the  breach  between  the  stage  and  the  men-of-letters 
was  made  to  appear  wider  than  it  ought  to  have  been." 
An  action  could  not  be  ill-advised  that  was  absolutely 
necessary  if  the  dignity  of  a  great  literary  form  was  to 
be  preserved,  and  the  **  unactable  dramatic  poems'* 
of  Tennyson  and  Browning  and  Swinburne,  besides 
being  a  rich  present  contribution  to  literature,  may 
quite  possibly  at  some  future  time  come  to  be  regarded 
as  having  exerted  a  powerful  indirect  influence  upon 
the  restoration  of  the  English  stage  to  its  once  forfeited 
estate.  These  men  may  then  be  honored  for  having 
kept  the  faith,  instead  of  being  censured,  as  they  now 
are,  for  refusing  to  make  terms  with  a  narrow  and 
degraded  dramaturgy. 

The  chief  tendency  of  the  modern  acting  drama  has 
been  toward  the  development  of  a  refined  technique, 
and  no  one  will  deny  that  this  is  a  praiseworthy  aim. 
But  technique  cannot  provide  the  substance  of  any  art, 
and  a  play  may  be  a  technical  masterpiece,  yet  fail 
lamentably  in  its  ultimate  purpose.  The  playwright 
bent  upon  technique  is  in  danger  of  sacrificing  beauty 


xl  3(!ntroliuction 

and  truth  and  vitality  to  the  requirements  of  mere 
stagecraft.  Most  modern  dramatists  have  succumbed 
in  some  degree  to  this  danger,  and  English  dramatists 
more  than  others.  Our  average  play-goer,  fed  all  his 
life  upon  dramatic  husks,  finds  himself  at  a  loss  in  the 
presence  of  serious  drama  ;  his  faculties  have  become 
atrophied  and  his  senses  dulled.  The  only  play  that 
gives  him  any  pleasure  is  the  one  in  which  something 
new  (and,  by  preference,  something  unexpected) 
happens  at  every  moment,  the  play  which  tickles  his 
palate  as  with  condiments,  the  play  which  makes  no 
demands  upon  the  reflective  side  of  his  nature.  His  is 
the  verdict  by  which  the  closet  drama  is  condemned, 
and  its  advocates  are  fairly  warranted  in  appealing  to 
the  judgment  of  a  higher  tribunal. 

If  we  seek  for  the  exact  reason  why  such  plays  as 
these  of  Swinburne  may  not  hope  to  meet  with  favor 
in  the  actual  playhouse,  it  will  be  found  in  the  fact 
that  they  have  too  much  declamation  and  too  little 
action  for  the  taste  of  the  play-goer.  But  for  Eliza- 
bethan audiences,  as  Swinburne  has  pointed  out,  long 
speeches  were  no  hindrance  to  enjoyment,  and  a  sim- 
ilar remark  may  be  made  of  the  audiences  for  whom 
Corneille  and  Racine  wrote  plays  in  the  great  age  of 
the  French  theatre.  And  it  is  surely  something  more 
than  tolerant  endurance  that  a  modern  French  audience 
accords  to  these  classics,  or  a  modern  German  audience 
accords  to  Torquato  Tasso  and  Nathan  der  Weise.  If 
our  own  stage  had  not  lost  almost  all  contact  with  liter- 
ature, it  would  make  a  much  larger  and  more  intelli- 
gent use  of  our  classics  than  it  now  does,  and  might 


3|ntroUuctton  xii 

even  unearth  many  a  treasure  now  buried  in  the  libra- 
ries and  known  only  to  the  student  of  literature. 

The  upshot  of  these  considerations  seems  to  be  that 
our  stage,  being  controlled  by  a  low,  or  at  least  a  lim- 
ited, sort  of  dramatic  intelligence,  is  primarily  respon- 
sible for  the  existence  of  the  closet  drama.  And  yet 
the  great  popularity  of  such  plays  as  Knowles's  Fir- 
ginius  and  Bulwer's  Richelieu  shows  that  the  poetic 
form  offers  no  insuperable  barrier  to  public  favor,  while 
the  more  modest  but  still  distinctly  pronounced  success 
of  Browning's  A  Blot  in  the  ^Scutcheon  and  Tenny- 
son's Be  eke  t  gives  evidence  that  the  highest  poetic 
genius  may  sometimes  be  something  more  than  tolerated 
by  our  theatre-going  audiences.  The  success  with 
which  such  minor  dramas  as  Milman's  Faxio  and  Tal- 
fourd's  Ion  have  occasionally  been  presented  provides 
an  encouraging  subject  for  reflection,  and  the  contem- 
porary applause  which  has  greeted  the  poetic  dramas 
of  Stephen  Phillips  is  an  augury  of  excellent  omen.  If 
these  plays  have  found  a  public  from  time  to  time,  why 
may  we  not  expect  that  a  public  of  some  sort  may  yet 
be  found  for  Shelley's  The  Cenci  and  Landor's  Count 
Julian  and  Browning's  Strafford  and  Tennyson's 
Harold — even  for  Swinburne's  Mary  Stuart  and 
Marino  Faliero  F  At  all  events,  the  works  named  in 
this  paragraph  are  sufficient  to  make  clear  the  fact  that 
there  is  no  hard  and  fast  line  between  the  drama  of  the 
stage  and  the  drama  of  the  closet,  that  it  is  possible  to 
pass  by  nearly  insensible  gradations  from  the  most 
obviously  actable  of  plays  to  those  that  appear  most 
remote  from  the  practical  requu-ements  of  the  playhouse. 


xlii  31ntroDuction 

Nor  does  it  seem  altogether  unreasonable  to  hope  that 
English  audiences  may  gradually  acquire  enough  of  the 
seriousness  and  artistic  conscience  of  German  and 
French  audiences  to  bring  more  and  more  of  the 
dramas  now  neglected  within  the  margin  of  actability, 
and  to  annex  to  the  empire  of  the  stage  much  of  that 
province  of  dramatic  literature  which  is  at  present  ex- 
plored by  readers  alone.  When  that  change  of  heart 
is  experienced,  the  drama  may  once  more  occupy  its 
rightfiil  position  in  English  literature,  and  again  become 
—  what  it  has  never  ceased  to  be  in  the  literature  of 
Continental  Europe  —  a  manifestation  of  the  deepest 
consciousness  of  the  race,  and  an  embodiment  of  its 
highest  idealism. 

W.  M.  Payne. 


yXoicrcra  TeXetcrOo)'  Tovcf>€LX6fJL€VOv 
TrpdcTcrovcra  SUrj  fxiy   dvrct* 
avTi  Se  TrX-qyrj'i  (f>0VLa<s  <f>0VLav 
Trkrjyrjv  TtverW  8pd(TavTL  iraBiiv, 
Tptyepuiv  fJivOos  raSe  cfxuvei. 

JEscH.   Cho.  309-315 


SOURCES 

A  considerable  portion  of  this  drama  consists  of  fairly  close  para- 
phrase from  the  contemporary  sources  of  the  history  of  Mary  Stuart. 
The  more  significant  passages  of  this  character  are  indicated  in  the 
Notes.  The  greater  part  of  the  material  that  Swinburne  has  thus 
used  may  be  found  in  the  State  Trials,  in  Labanoff's  Recueil  des 
Lettres,  Instructions,  et  Memoir es  de  Marie  Stuart ^  Reine  d'' EcossCy 
and  in  the  Letter  Book  of  Sir  Amias  Paulet. 


I  DEDICATE  THIS  PLAY, 

NO  LONGER,  AS  THE  FIRST  PART  OF  THE  TRILOGY 

WHICH  IT  COMPLETES  WAS  DEDICATED, 

TO  THE  GREATEST  EXILE,  BUT  SIMPLY 

TO  THE  GREATEST  MAN  OF  FRANCE  : 

TO  THE  CHIEF  OF  LIVING  POETS  I 

TO  THE  FIRST  DRAMATIST  OF  HIS  AGE  ! 

TO  MY  BELOVED  AND  REVERED  MASTER 

VICTOR  HUGO. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


Mary  Stuart. 
Mary  Beaton. 
QjLTEEN  Elizabeth. 
Barbara  Mowbray. 
Lord  Burghley. 
Sir  Francis  Walsingham. 
William  Davison. 
Robert  Dudley,  Earl  of  Leicester. 
George  Talbot,  Earl  of  Shrewsbury. 
Earl  of  Kent. 
Henry  Carey,  Lord  Hunsdon. 
Sir  Christopher  Hatton. 
Sir  Thomas  Bromley,  Lord  Chancellor. 
POPHAM,  Attorney-General. 
Egerton,  Solicitor-General. 
Gawdy,  T^tf  Queens  Sergeant. 
Sir  Amyas  Paulet. 
Sir  Drew  Drury. 
Sir  Thomas  Gorges. 
Si>R  William  Wade. 
Sir  Andrew  Melville. 
Robert  Beale,  Clerk  of  the  Council. 
CURLE  and  Nau,  Secretaries  to  the  ^lueen  of  Scots. 
GORION,  her  Apothecary. 
Father  John  Ballard, 
Anthony  Babington, 
Chidiock  Tichborne, 
John  Savage, 
Charles  Tilney, 
Edward  Abington, 
Thomas  Salisbury, 
Robert  Barnwell, 
Thomas  Phillipps,  Secretary  to  WalsinGHAM. 
M.  DE  Chateauneuf. 
M.  DE  Bellievre. 
Commissioners.,  Privy  Councillors.,  Sheriffs.,  Citixens,  Officers, 
and  Attendants. 


Conspirators. 


Time  — From  August  14,  1586,  to  February  18, 1587. 


ACT  I 
ANTHONY  BABINGTON 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I.  —  Babington's  Lodging:  a  veiled  picture 
on  the  wall. 

Enter  Babington,  Tichborne,  Tilney,  Abington, 
Salisbury,  and  Barnwell. 

Babington,  Welcome,  good  friends,  and  wel- 
come this  good  day 
That  casts  out  hope  and  brings  in  certainty 
To  turn  raw  spring  to  summer.    Now  not  long 
The  flower  that  crowns  the  front  of  all  our  faiths 
Shall  bleach  to  death  in  prison  ;  now  the  trust       5 
That  took  the  night  with  fire  as  of  a  star 
Grows  red  and  broad  as  sunrise  in  our  sight 
Who  held  it  dear  and  desperate  once,  now  sure. 
But  not  more  dear,  being  surer.    In  my  hand 
I  hold  this  England  and  her  brood,  and  all  10 

That  time  out  of  the  chance  of  all  her  fate 
Makes  hopeful  or  makes  fearful :  days  and  years, 
Triumphs  and  changes  bred  for  praise  or  shame 
From  the  unborn  womb  of  these  unknown,  are 

ours 
That  stand  yet  noteless  here  ;  ours  even  as  God's  15 
Who  puts  them  in  our  hand  as  his,  to  wield 
And  shape  to  service  godlike.    None  of  you 


8  ^ar^  g)tuart  [act  i. 

But  this  day  strikes  out  of  the  scroll  of  death 
And  writes  apart  immortal ;   what  we  would, 
That  have  we  ;  what  our  fathers,  brethren,  peers,  20 
Bled  and  beheld  not,  died  and  might  not  win. 
That  may  we  see,  touch,  handle,  hold  it  fast. 
May  take  to  bind  our  brows  with.    By  my  life, 
I  think  none  ever  had  such  hap  alive 
As  ours  upon  whose  plighted  lives  are  set  15 

The  whole  good  hap  and  evil  of  the  state 
And  of  the  Church  of  God  and  world  of  men 
And  fortune  of  all  crowns  and  creeds  that  hang 
Now  on  the  creed  and  crown  of  this  our  land. 
To  bring  forth  fruit  to  our  resolve,  and  bear        3° 
What  sons  to  time  it  please  us ;  whose  mere  will 
Is  father  of  the  future. 

Tilney,  Have  you  said  ? 

Bah,  I  cannot  say  too  much  of  so  much  good. 

Til,  Say  nothing  then  a  little,  and  hear  one 
while  : 
Your  talk  struts  high  and  swaggers  loud  for  joy,  35 
And  safely  may  perchance,  or  may  not,  here ; 
But  why  to-day  we  know  not. 

Bah.  No,  I  swear. 

Ye  know  not  yet,  no  man  of  us  but  one. 
No  man  on  earth  ;  one  woman  knows,  and  I, 
I  that  best  know  her  the  best  begot  of  man  40 

And  noblest ;   no  king  born  so  kingly-souled, 
Nor  served  of  such  brave  servants. 


Scene  I]  ^^t^  g^tUHlt  9 

Tichborne.  What,  as  we  ? 

Bab.   Is  there  one  vein  in  one  of  all  our  hearts 
That  is  not  blown  aflame  as  fire  with  air 
With  even  the  thought  to  serve  her  ?  and,  by 

God,  45 

They  that  would  serve  had  need  be  bolder  found 
Than  common  kings  find  servants. 

Salisbury.  Well,  your  cause  ? 

What  need  or  hope  has  this  day's  heat  brought 

forth 
To  blow  such  fire  up  in  you  ? 

Bab.  Hark  you,  sirs  ; 

The  time  is  come,  ere  I  shall  speak  of  this,  5° 

To  set  again  the  seal  on  our  past  oaths 
And  bind  their  trothplight  faster  than  it  is 
With  one  more  witness  ;  not  for  shameful  doubt. 
But  love  and  perfect  honour.    Gentlemen, 
Whose  souls  are  brethren  sealed  and  sworn  to 

mine,  55 

Friends  that  have  taken  on  your  hearts  and  hands 
The  selfsame  work  and  weight  of  deed  as  I, 
Look  on  this  picture ;   from  its  face  to-day 
Thus  I  pluck  ofFthe  muffled  mask,  and  bare 
Its  likeness  and  our  purpose.    Ay,  look  here  ;       6o 
None  of  these  faces  but  are  friends  of  each. 
None  of  these  lips  unsworn  to  all  the  rest. 
None  of  these  hands  unplighted.    Know  ye  not 
What  these  have  bound  their  souls  to  ?  and  my- 
self, 


10  ^ar^g>tuart  [acti. 

I  that  stand  midmost  painted  here  of  all,  65 

Have  I  not  right  to  wear  of  all  this  ring 
The  topmost  flower  of  danger  ?    Who  but  I 
Should  crown  and  close  this  goodly  circle  up 
Of  friends  I  call  my  followers  ?    There  ye  stand, 
Fashioned  all  five  in  likeness  of  mere  life,  70 

Just  your  own  shapes,  even  all   the  man  but 

speech. 
As  in  a  speckless  mirror;  Tichborne,  thou, 
My  nearest  heart  and  brother  next  in  deed. 
Then  Abington,  there  Salisbury,  Tilney  there. 
And  Barnwell,  with  the  brave  bright  Irish  eye      75 
That  burns  with  red  remembrance  of  the  blood 
Seen  drenching  those  green  fields  turned  brown 

and  grey 
Where  fire  can  burn  not  faith  out,  nor  the  sword 
That  hews  the  boughs  off  lop  the  root  there  set 
To  spread  in  spite  of  axes.    Friends,  take  heed  ;  80 
These  are  not  met  for  nothing  here  in  show 
Nor  for  poor  pride  set  forth  and  boastful  heart 
To  make  dumb  brag  of  the  undone  deed,  and 

wear 
The  ghost  and  mockery  of  a  crown  unearned 
Before  their  hands  have  wrought  it  for  their  heads  85 
Out  of  a  golden  danger,  glorious  doubt. 
An  act  incomparable,  by  all  time's  mouths 
To  be  more  blessed  and  cursed  than  all  deeds 

done 


Scene  I]  ^dit^  ^tmtt  II 

In  this  swift  fiery  world  of  ours,  that  drives 
On  such  hot  wheels  toward  evil  goals  or  good,    90 
And  desperate  each  as  other;  but  that  each. 
Seeing   here   himself   and    knowing  why  here, 

may  set 
His  whole  heart's  might  on  the  instant  work, 

and  hence 
Pass  as  a  man  rechristened,  bathed  anew 
And  swordlike  tempered  from  the  touch  that  turns  95 
Dull  iron  to  the  two-edged  fang  of  steel 
Made  keen  as  fire  by  water;  so,  I  say. 
Let  this  dead  likeness  of  you  wrought  with  hands 
Whereof  ye  wist  not,  working  for  mine  end 
Even  as  ye  gave  them  work,  unwittingly,  100 

Quicken  with  life  your  vows  and  purposes 
To  rid  the  beast  that  troubles  all  the  world 
Out  of  men*s  sight  and  God's.   Are  ye  not  sworn 
Or  stand  not  ready  girt  at  perilous  need 
To  strike  under  the  cloth  of  state  itself  105 

The  very  heart  we  hunt  for  ? 

Tich.  Let  not  then 

Too  high  a  noise  of  hound  and  horn  give  note 
How  hot  the  hunt  is  on  it,  and  ere  we  shoot 
Startle  the  royal  quarry ;  lest  your  cry 
Give  tongue  too  loud  on  such  a  trail,  and  we      no 
More  piteously  be  rent  of  our  own  hounds 
Than  he  that  went  forth  huntsman  too,  and  came 
To  play  the  hart  he  hunted. 


12  ^ar^g>tuart  [acti. 

Bab.  Ay,  but,  see, 

Your  apish  poet's-likeness  holds  not  here, 
If  he  that  fed  his  hounds  on  his  changed  flesh     "5 
Was  charmed  out  of  a  man  and  bayed  to  death 
But  through  pure  anger  of  a  perfect  maid  ; 
For  she  that  should  of  huntsmen  turn  us  harts 
Is  Dian  but  in  mouths  of  her  own  knaves. 
And  in  paid  eyes  hath  only  godhead  on  no 

And  light  to  dazzle  none  but  them  to  death. 
Yet  I  durst  well  abide  her,  and  proclaim 
As  goddess-like  as  maiden. 

Barnwell.  Why,  myself 

Was  late  at  court  in  presence,  and  her  eyes 
Fixed  somewhile  on  me  full  in  face  ;  yet,  'faith,  125 
I  felt  for  that  no  lightning  in  my  blood 
Nor  blast  in  mine  as  of  the  sun  at  noon 
To  blind  their  balls  with  godhead ;  no,  ye  see, 
I  walk  yet  well  enough. 

Ahington.  She  gazed  at  you  ? 

Barn.  Yes,  'faith  ;  yea,  surely  ;  take  a  Puritan 

oath  130 

To  seal  my  faith  for  Catholic.    What,  God  help. 

Are  not  mine  eyes  yet  whole  then  ?  am  I  blind 

Or  maimed  or  scorched,  and  know  not?   by  my 

head, 
I  find  it  sit  yet  none  the  worse  for  fear 
To  be  so  thunder-blasted. 

Ahing.  Hear  you,  sirs  ?  135 


Scene  I]  ^^t^  ^tXim  1 3 

Tich.  I  was  not  fain  to  hear  it. 

Barn.  Which  was  he 

Spake  of  one  changed  into  a  hart  ?  by  God, 
There  be  some  hearts  here  need  no  charm,  I 

think, 
To  turn  them  hares  of  hunters  ;  or  if  deer, 
Not  harts  but  hinds,  and  rascal. 

Bab.  Peace,  man,  peace  !  140 

Let  not  at  least  this  noble  cry  of  hounds 
Flash  fangs  against  each  other.    See  what  verse 
I  bade  write  under  on  the  picture  here  : 
These  are  my  comrades.^  whom  the  periVs  self 
Draws  to  it ;  how  say  you  ?  will  not  all  in  the 

end  145 

Prove  fellows  to  me  ?  how  should  one  fall  off 
Whom  danger  lures  and  scares  not  ?    Tush,  take 

hands ; 
It  was  to  keep  them  fast  in  all  time's  sight 
I  bade  my  painter  set  you  here,  and  me 
Your  loving  captain  ;  gave  him  sight  of  each      150 
And  order  of  us  all  in  amity. 
And  if  this  yet  not  shame  you,  or  your  hearts 
Be  set  as  boys'  on  wrangling,  yet,  behold, 
I  pluck  as  from  my  heart  this  witness  forth 

Taking  out  a  letter. 
To  what  a  work  we  are  bound  to,  even  her  hand  155 
Whom  we  must  bring  from  bondage,  and  again 
Be  brought  of  her  to  honour.    This  is  she, 


14  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  i. 

Mary  the  queen,  sealed  of  herself  and  signed 
As  mine  assured  good  friend  for  ever.  Now, 
Am  I  more  worth  or  Ballard  ? 

Til.  He  it  was  i6o 

Bade  get  her  hand  and  seal  to  allow  of  all 
That  should  be  practised;  he  is  wise. 

Bab.  Ay,  wise  ! 

He  was  in  peril  too,  he  said,  God  wot. 
And  must  have  surety  of  her,  he ;  but  I, 
'T  is  I  that  have  it,  and  her  heart  and  trust,        165 
See  all  here  else,  her  trust  and  her  good  love 
Who  knows  mine  own  heart  of  mine  own  hand 

writ 
And  sent  her  for  assurance. 

Sal.  This  we  know  ; 

What  we  would  yet  have  certified  of  you 
Is  her  own  heart  sent  back,  you  say,  for  yours.  170 

Bab.  I  say  ?   not  I,  but  proof  says  here,  cries 
out 
Her  perfect  will  and  purpose.    Look  you,  first 
She  writes  me  what  good  comfort  hath  she  had 
To  know  by  letter  mine  estate,  and  thus 
Reknit  the  bond  of  our  intelligence,  175 

As  grief  was  hers  to  live  without  the  same 
This  great  while  past ;  then  lovingly  commends 
In  me  her  own  desire  to  avert  betimes 
Our  enemies'  counsel  to  root  out  our  faith 
With  ruin  of  us  all ;  for  so  she  hath  shown        180 


Scene  I.]  ^Ht^  ^tUait  1 5 

All  Catholic  princes  what  long  since  they  have 

wrought 
Against  the  king  of  Spain  ;  and  all  this  while 
The  Catholics  naked  here  to  all  misuse 
Fall  off  in  numbered  force,  in  means  and  power, 
And  if  we  look  not  to  it  shall  soon  lack  strength  185 
To  rise  and  take  that  hope  or  help  by  the  hand 
Which  time  shall  offer  them  ;  and  see  for  this 
What  heart  is  hers  !   she  bids  you  know  of  me 
Though  she  were  no  part  of  this   cause,  who 

holds 
Worthless  her  own  weighed  with  the  general 

weal,  190 

She  will  be  still  most  willing  to  this  end 
To  employ  therein  her  life  and  all  she  hath 
Or  in  this  world  may  look  for. 

Tich.  This  rings  well; 

But  by  what  present  mean  prepared  doth  hers 
Confirm  your  counsel  ?  or  what  way  set  forth    195 
So  to  prevent  our  enemies  with  good  speed 
That  at  the  goal  we  find  them  not,  and  there 
Fall  as  men  broken  ? 

Bab.  Nay,  what  think  you,  man. 

Or  what  esteem  of  her,  that  hope  should  lack 
Herein  her  counsel  ?  hath  she  not  been  found    aoo 
Most  wary  still,  clear-spirited,  bright  of  wit. 
Keen  as  a  sword's  edge,  as  a  bird's  eye  swift, 
Man-hearted  ever  ?    First,  for  crown  and  base 


1 6  9^ar^  S)tuart  [acti. 

Of  all  this  enterprise,  she  bids  me  here 
Examine  with  good  heed  of  good  event  205 

What  power  of  horse  and  foot  among  us  all 
We  may  well  muster,  and  in  every  shire 
Choose  out  what  captain  for  them,  if  we  lack 
For  the  main  host  a  general ;  —  as  indeed 
Myself  being  bound  to  bring  her  out  of  bonds    210 
Or  here  with  you  cut  off  the  heretic  queen 
Could  take  not   this  on    me  ;  —  what  havens, 

towns, 
What  ports  to  north  and  west  and  south,  may  we 
Assure  ourselves  to  hold  in  certain  hand 
For  entrance  and  receipt  of  help  from  France,    215 
From  Spain,  or  the  Low  Countries ;  in  what 

place 
Draw  our  main  head  together ;   for  how  long 
Raise  for  this  threefold  force  of  foreign  friends 
Wage  and  munition,  or  what  harbours  choose 
For  these  to  land ;  or  what  provision  crave         220 
Of  coin  at  need  or  armour;  by  what  means 
The  six  her  friends  deliberate  to  proceed ; 
And  last  the  manner  how  to  get  her  forth 
From  this  last  hold  wherein  she  newly  lies  : 
These  heads  hath  she  set  down,  and  bids  me 

take  225 

Of  all  seven  points  counsel  and  common  care 
With  as  few  friends  as  may  be  of  the  chief 
Ranged  on  our  part  for  actors ;  and  thereon 


Scene  I]  ^UV^  ^tmtt  1 7 

Of  all  devised  with  diligent  speed  despatch 
Word  to  the  ambassador  of  Spain  in  France,      230 
Who  to  the  experience  past  of  all  the  estate 
Here  on  this  side  aforetime  that  he  hath 
Shall  join  goodwill  to  serve  us. 

Til.  Ay,  no  more  ? 

Of  us  no  more  I  mean,  who  being  most  near 
To  the  English  queen  our  natural  mistress  born  235 
Take  on  our  hands,  her  household  pensioners', 
The  stain  and  chiefest  peril  of  her  blood 
Shed  by  close  violence  under  trust ;  no  word. 
No  care  shown  further  of  our  enterprise 
That  flowers  to  fruit  for  her  sake  ? 

Bab.  Fear  not  that ;  240 

Abide  till  we  draw  thither  —  ay  —  she  bids 
Get  first  assurance  of  such  help  to  come. 
And  take  thereafter,  what  before  were  vain. 
Swift  order  to  provide  arms,  horses,  coin. 
Wherewith  to  march  at  word  from  every  shire  245 
Given  by  the  chief;  and  save  these  principals 
Let  no  man's  knowledge  less  in  place  partake 
The  privy  ground  we  move  on,  but  set  forth 
For  entertainment  of  the  meaner  ear 
We  do  but  fortify  us  against  the  plot  250 

Laid  of  the  Puritan  part  in  all  this  realm 
That  have  their  general  force  now  drawn  to  head 
In  the  Low  Countries,  whence  being  home  re- 
turned 


1 8  ^ar^  S>tuart  [acti. 

They  think  to  spoil  us  utterly,  and  usurp 
Not  from  her  only  and  all  else  lawful  heirs         255 
The  kingly  power,  but  from  their  queen  that  is 
(As  we  may  let  the  bruit  fly  forth  disguised) 
Wrest  that  which  now  she  hath,  if  she  for  fear 
Take  not  their  yoke  upon  her,  and  therefrom 
Catch  like  infection  from  plague-tainted  air        z6o 
The  purulence  of  their  purity ;  with  which  plea 
We  so  may  stablish  our  confederacies 
As  wrought  but  for  defence  of  lands,  lives,  goods. 
From  them  that  would  cut  ofFour  faith  and  these ; 
No  word  writ  straight  or  given  directly  forth      265 
Against  the  queen,  but  rather  showing  our  will 
Firm  to  maintain  her  and  her  lineal  heirs. 
Myself  (she  saith)  not  named.    Ha,  gallant  souls, 
Hath  our  queen's  craft  no  savour  of  sweet  wit. 
No  brain  to  help  her  heart  with  ? 

Tich.  But  our  end — 270 

No  word  of  this  yet  ? 

Bab.  And  a  good  word,  here. 

And  worth  our  note,  good  friend  ;  being  thus 

prepared. 
Time  then  shall  be  to  set  our  hands  on  work 
And  straight  thereon  take  order  that  she  may 
Be  suddenly  transported  out  of  guard,  275 

Not  tarrying  till  our  foreign  force  come  in. 
Which  then  must  make  the  hotter  haste ;  and 
seeing 


Scene!.]  ^at^  ^tUait  1 9 

We  can  make  no  day  sure  for  our  design 

Nor  certain  hour  appointed  when  she  might 

Find  other  friends  at  hand  on  spur  of  the  act      a8o 

To  take  her  forth  of  prison,  ye  should  have 

About  you  always,  or  in  court  at  least, 

Scouts  furnished  well  with  horses  of  good  speed 

To  bear  the  tiding  to  her  and  them  whose  charge 

Shall  be  to  bring  her  out  of  bonds,  that  these      285 

May  be  about  her  ere  her  keeper  have  word 

What  deed  is  freshly  done ;  in  any  case, 

Ere  he  can  make  him  strong  within  the  house 

Or  bear  her  forth  of  it  :  and  need  it  were 

By  divers  ways  to  send  forth  two  or  three  190 

That  one  may  pass  if  one  be  stayed ;  nor  this 

Should  we  forget,  to  assay  in  the  hour  of  need 

To  cut  the  common  posts  ofF;  by  this  plot 

May  we  steer  safe,  and  fall  not  miserably. 

As  they  that  laboured  heretofore  herein,  295 

Through  overhaste  to  stir  upon  this  side 

Ere  surety  make  us  strong  of  strangers'  aid. 

And  if  at  first  we  bring  her  forth  of  bonds. 

Be  well  assured,  she  bids  us  —  as  I  think 

She  doubts  not  me  that  I  should  let  this  slip,      300 

Forget  so  main  a  matter  —  well  assured 

To  set  her  in  the  heart  of  some  strong  host. 

Or  strength  of  some  good  hold,  where  she  may 

stay 
Till  we  be  mustered  and  the  ally  drawn  in ; 


20  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  i. 

For  should  the  queen,  being  scatheless  of  us  yet  305 
As  we  unready,  fall  upon  her  flight. 
The  bird  untimely  fled  from  snare  to  snare 
Should  find  being  caught  again  a  narrower  hold 
Whence  she  should   fly   forth  never,  if  cause 

indeed 
Should  seem  not  given  to  use  her  worse  ;  and  we  310 
Should  be  with  all  extremity  pursued. 
To  her  more  grief;  for  this  should  grieve  her 

more 
Than  what  might  heaviest  fall  upon  her. 

TiL  Ay  ? 

She  hath  had  then  work  enough  to  do  to  weep 
For  them  that  bled  before;   Northumberland,     315 
The  choice  of  all  the  north  spoiled,  banished, 

slain, 
Norfolk  that  should  have  ringed  the  fourth  sad 

time 
The  fairest  hand  wherewith  fate  ever  led 
So  many  a  man  to  deathward,  or  sealed  up 
So  many  an  eye  from  sunlight. 

Bab.  By  my  head,      3^0 

Which  is  the  main  stake  of  this  cast,  I  swear 
There  is  none  worth  more  than  a  tear  of  hers 
That  man  wears  living  or  that  man  might  lose. 
Borne  upright  in  the  sun,  or  for  her  sake 
Bowed  down  by  theirs  she  weeps  for :  nay,  but 

hear;  325 


Scene  I.]  ^at^  g^tUatt  21 

She  bids  me  take  most  vigilant  heed,  that  all 

May  prosperously  find  end  assured,  and  you 

Conclude  with  me  in  judgment ;  to  myself 

As  chief  of  trust  in  my  particular 

Refers  you  for  assurance,  and  commends  330 

To  counsel  seasonable  and  time's  advice 

Your  common  resolution  ;  and  again, 

If  the  design  take  yet  not  hold,  as  chance 

For  all  our  will  may  turn  it,  we  should  not 

Pursue  her  transport  nor  the  plot  laid  else  335 

Of  our  so  baffled  enterprise  ;  but  say 

When  this  were  done  we  might  not  come  at  her 

Being  by  mishap  close  guarded  in  the  Tower 

Or  some  strength  else  as  dangerous,  yet,  she 

saith. 
For  God's  sake  leave  not  to  proceed  herein         340 
To  the  utmost  undertaking  ;   for  herself 
At  any  time  shall  most  contentedly 
Die,  knowing  of  our  deliverance  from  the  bonds 
Wherein  as  slaves  we  are  holden. 

Barn.  So  shall  I, 

Knowing  at  the  least  of  her  enfranchisement       345 
Whose  life  were  worth  the  whole  blood  shed  o' 

the  world 
And  all  men's  hearts  made  empty. 

Bab.  Ay,  good  friend. 

Here  speaks  she  of  your  fellows,  that  some  stir 
Might  be  in  Ireland  laboured  to  begin 


22  £par^  Stuart  [act  i. 

Some  time  ere  we  take  aught  on  us,  that  thence  35° 
The  alarm  might  spring  right  on  the  part  opposed 
To  where  should  grow  the  danger:   she  mean- 
time 
Should  while  the  work  were  even  in  hand  assay 
To  make  the  Catholics  in  her  Scotland  rise 
And  put  her  son  into  their  hands,  that  so  355 

No  help  may  serve  our  enemies  thence;  again, 
That  from  our  plots  the  stroke  may  come,  she 

thinks 
To  have  some  chief  or  general  head  of  all 
Were  now  most  apt  for  the  instant  end ;  where- 
in 
I  branch  not  off  from  her  in  counsel,  yet  360 

Conceive  not  how  to  send  the  appointed  word 
To  the  Earl  of  Arundel  now  fast  in  bonds 
Held  in  the  Tower  she  spake  of  late,  who  now 
Would  have  us  give  him  careful  note  of  this. 
Him  or  his  brethren ;  and  from  oversea  365 

Would  have  us  seek,  if  he  be  there  at  large. 
To  the  young  son  of  dead  Northumberland, 
And  Westmoreland,  whose  hand  and  name,  we 

know. 
May  do  much  northward  ;  ay,  but  this  we  know. 
How  much  his  hand  was  lesser  than  his  name    37° 
When  proof  was  put  on  either ;   and  the  lord 
Paget,  whose  power  is  in  some  shires  of  weight 
To  incline  them  usward ;  both  may  now  be  had 


Scene  I.]  ^Ht^  g^tUatt  23 

And  some,  she  saith,  of  the  exiles  principal, 
If  the  enterprise  be  resolute  once,  with  these      375 
May  come  back  darkhng ;  Paget  lies  in  Spain, 
Whom  we  may  treat  with  by  his  brother's  mean, 
Charles,  who  keeps  watch  in  Paris :  then  in  the 

end 
She  bids  beware  no  messenger  sent  forth 
That  bears  our  counsel  bear  our  letters ;  these    380 
Must  through  blind  hands  precede  them  or  en- 
sue 
By  ignorant  posts  and  severally  despatched ; 
And  of  her  sweet  wise  heart,  as  we  were  fools, 
— But  that  I  think  she  fears  not — bids  take  heed 
Of  spies  among  us  and  false  brethren,  chief        3^5 
Of  priests  already  practised  on,  she  saith. 
By  the  enemy's  craft  against  us ;  what,  forsooth. 
We  have  not  eyes  to  set  such  knaves  apart 
And  look  their  wiles  through,  but  should  need 

misdoubt 
— Whom  shall  I  say  the  least  on  all  our  side  ? — 390 
Good  Gilbert  GifFord  with  his  kind  boy's  face 
That  fear's  lean  self  could  fear  not  ?  but  God 

knows 
Woman  is  wise,  but  woman  ;  none  so  bold. 
So  cunning  none,  God  help  the  soft  sweet  wit, 
But  the  fair  flesh  with  weakness  taints  it;  why, 395 
She  warns  me  here  of  perilous  scrolls  to  keep 
That  I  should  never  bear  about  me,  seeing 


24  9m  Stuart  [Act  I. 

By  that  fault  sank  all  they  that  fell  before 
Who  should  have  walked  unwounded   else  of 

proof, 
Unstayed  of  justice  :  but  this  following  word      400 
Hath  savour  of  more  judgment ;  we  should  let 
As  little  as  we  may  our  names  be  known 
Or  purpose  here  to  the  envoy  sent  from  France, 
Whom  though  she  hears  for  honest,  we  must 

fear 
His  master  holds  the  course  of  his  design  405 

Far  contrary  to  this  of  ours,  which  known 
Might  move  him  to  discovery. 

Ttch.  Well  forewarned: 

Forearmed  enough  were  now  that  cause  at  need 
Which  had  but  half  so  good  an  armour  on 
To  fight  false  faith  or  France  in. 

Bab.  Peace  awhile -,410 

Here  she  winds  up  her  craft.  She  hath  long  time 

sued 
To  shift  her  lodging,  and  for  answer  hath 
None  but  the  Castle  of  Dudley  named  as  meet 
To  serve  this  turn  ;   and  thither  may  depart. 
She  thinks,  with  parting  summer ;   whence  may 

we  415 

Devise  what  means  about  those  lands  to  lay 
For  her  deliverance ;  who  from  present  bonds 
May  but  by  one  of  three  ways  be  discharged  : 
When  she  shall  ride  forth  on  the  moors  that  part 


Scene  L]  ^at^  ^tUHlt  25 

Her  prison-place  from  Stafford,  where  few  folk  420 

Use  to  pass  over,  on  the  same  day  set, 

With  fifty  or  threescore  men  well  horsed  and 

armed, 
To  take  her  from  her  keeper's  charge,  who  rides 
With  but  some  score  that  bear  but  pistols  ;  next, 
To  come  by  deep  night  round  the  darkling  house 4*5 
And  fire  the  barns  and  stables,  which  being  nigh 
Shall  draw  the  household  huddling  forth  to  help, 
And  they  that  cornie  to  serve  her,  wearing  each 
A  secret  sign  for  note  and  cognizance. 
May  some  of  them  surprise  the  house,  whom  she  430 
Shall  with  her  servants  meet  and  second ;  last. 
When  carts  come  in  at  morning,  these  being  met 
In  the  main  gateway's  midst  may  by  device 
Fall  or  be  sidelong  overthrown,  and  we 
Make  in  thereon  and  suddenly  possess  435 

The  house  whence  lightly  might  we  bear  her 

forth 
Ere  help  came  in  of  soldiers  to  relief 
Who  lie  a  mile  or  half  a  mile  away 
In  several  lodgings  :  but  howe'er  this  end 
She  holds  her  bounden  to  me  all  her  days  440 

Who  proffer  me  to  hazard  for  her  love. 
And  doubtless  shall  as  well  esteem  of  you 
Or  scarce  less  honourably,  when  she  shall  know 
Your  names  who  serve  beneath  me ;  so  com- 
mends 


26  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  i. 

Her  friend  to  God,  and  bids  me  burn  the  word445 
That  I  would  wear  at  heart  for  ever ;  yet, 
Lest  this  sweet  scripture  haply  write  us  dead, 
Where  she  set  hand  I  set  my  lips,  and  thus 
Rend  mine  own  heart  with  her  sweet  name,  and 
end.  Tears  the  letter. 

Sal,    She  hath  chosen  a  trusty  servant. 

Bab.  Ay,  of  me? 45© 

What  ails  you  at  her  choice  ?  was  this  not  I 
That    laid  the    ground    of  all  this  work,  and 

wrought 
Your  hearts  to  shape  for  service  ?  or  perchance 
The  man  was  you  that  took  this  first  on  him, 
To  serve  her  dying  and  living,  and  put  on  455 

The  bloodred  name  of  traitor  and  the  deed 
Found  for  her  sake  not  murderous  ? 

Sal.  Why,  they  sa" 

First  GifFord  put  this  on  you,  Ballard  next. 
Whom  he  brought  over  to  redeem  your  heart 
Half  lost  for  doubt  already,  and  refresh  460 

The  flagging  flame  that  fired  it  first,  and  now 
Fell  faltering  half  in  ashes,  whence  his  breath 
Hardly  with  hard  pains  quickened  it  and  blew 
The  grey  to  red  rekindling. 

Bab.  Sir,  they  lie 

Who  say  for  fear  I  faltered,  or  lost  heart  465 

For  doubt  to  lose  life  after ;  let  such  know 
It  shames  me  not  though  I  were  slow  of  will 


Scene!.]  ^^at^  ^tUatt  ^^ 

To  take  such  work  upon  my  soul  and  hand 
As  killing  of  a  queen ;  being  once  assured, 
Brought  once  past  question,  set  beyond  men's 

doubts  470 

By  witness  of  God's  will  borne  sensibly, 
Meseems  I  have  swerved  not. 

Sal,  Ay,  when  once  the  word 

Was  washed  in  holy  water,  you  would  wear 
Lightly  the  name  so  hallowed  of  priests'  lips 
That  men  spell  murderer  ;  but  till  Ballard  spake  475 
The  shadow  of  her  slaying  whom  we  shall  strike 
Was  ice  to  freeze  your  purpose. 

T'tch,  Friend,  what  then  ? 

Is  this  so  small  a  thing,  being  English  born, 
To  strike  the  living  empire  here  at  heart 
That  is  called  England  ?  stab  her  present  state,  480 
Give  even  her  false-faced  likeness  up  to  death. 
With  hands  that  smite  a  woman  ?   I  that  speak. 
Ye  know  me  if  now  my  faith  be  firm,  and  will 
To  do  faith's  bidding ;  yet  it  wrings  not  me 
To  say  I  was  not  quick  nor  light  of  heart,  485 

Though  moved  perforce  of  will  unwillingly, 
To  take  in  trust  this  charge  upon  me. 

Barn,  I 

With  all  good  will  would  take,  and  give  God 

thanks, 
The  charge  of  all  that  falter  in  it  :   by  heaven, 
To  hear  in   the  end  of  doubts  and  doublings 

heaves  49° 


28  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  i. 

My  heart  up  as  with  sickness.    Why,  by  this 
The  heretic  harlot  that  confounds  our  hope 
Should  be  made  carrion,  with  those  following  four 
That  were  to  wait  upon  her  dead  :   all  five 
Live  yet  to  scourge  God's  servants,  and  we  prate  495 
And  threaten  here  in  painting :   by  my  life, 
I  see  no  more  in  us  of  life  or  heart 
Than  in  this  heartless  picture. 

Bab.  Peace  again  ; 

Our  purpose  shall  not  long  lack  life,  nor  they 
Whose  life  is  deadly  to  the  heart  of  ours  5°° 

Much  longer  keep  it ;   Burghley,  Walsingham, 
Hunsdon  and   Knowles,  all    these  four  names 

writ  out. 
With  hers  at  head  they  worship,  are  but  now 
As  those  five  several  letters  that  spell  death 
In  eyes  that  read  them  right.    Give  me  but  faith  505 
A  little  longer :   trust  that  heart  awhile 
Which  laid  the  ground  of  all  our  glories  ;  think 
I  that  was  chosen  of   our  queen's   friends    in 

France, 
By  Morgan's  hand  there  prisoner  for  her  sake 
On  charge  of  such  a  deed's  device  as  ours  5^0 

Commended  to  her  for  trustiest,  and  a  man 
More  sure  than  might  be  Ballard  and  more  fit 
To  bear  the  burden  of  her  counsels  — I 
Can  be  not  undeserving,  whom  she  trusts, 
That  ye  should  likewise  trust  me  j  seeing  at  first  515 


Scene  L]  ^^t^  ^tUatt  29 

She  writes  me  but  a  thankful  word,  and  this, 

God  wot,  for  little  service ;  I  return 

For  aptest  answer  and  thankworthiest  meed 

Word  of  the  usurper's  plotted  end,  and  she 

With  such  large  heart  of  trust  and  liberal  faith  520 

As  here  ye  have  heard  requites  me  :  whom,  I 

think. 
For  you  to  trust  is  no  too  great  thing  now 
For  me  to  ask  and  have  of  all. 

Tich,  Dear  friend, 

Mistrust  has  no  part  in  our  mind  of  you 
More  than  in  hers  ;  yet  she  too  bids  take  heed,  525 
As  I  would  bid  you  take,  and  let  not  slip 
The  least  of  her  good  counsels,  which  to  keep 
No  whit  proclaims  us  colder  than  herself 
Who  gives  us  charge  to  keep  them ;    and   to 

slight 
No  whit  proclaims  us  less  unserviceable  53© 

Who  are  found  too  hot  to  serve  her  than  the 

slave 
Who  for  cold  heart  and  fear  might  fail. 

Bab,  Too  hot  ! 

Why,  what  man's  heart  hath  heat  enough  or 

blood 
To  give  for  such  good  service  ?    Look  you,  sirs. 
This  is  no  new  thing  for  my  faith  to  keep,         535 
My  soul  to  feed  its  fires  with,  and  my  hope 
Fix  eyes  upon  for  star  to  steer  by  ;  she 


30  ^ar^  g)tuatt  [act  i. 

That  six  years  hence  the  boy  that  I  was  then, 
And  page,  ye  know,  to  Shrewsbury,  gave  his  faith 
To  serve  and  worship  with  his  body  and  soul     54® 
For  only  lady  and  queen,  with  power  alone 
To  lift  my  heart  up  and  bow  down  mine  eyes 
At  sight  and  sense  of  her  sweet  sovereignty, 
Made  thence  her  man  for  ever ;  she  whose  look 
Turned  all  my  blood  of  life  to  tears  and  fire,      545 
That  going  or  coming,  sad  or  glad  —  for  yet 
She  would  be  somewhile  merry,  as  though  to  give 
Comfort,  and  ease  at  heart  her  servants,  then 
Weep  smilingly  to  be  so  light  of  mind. 
Saying  she  was  like   the  bird  grown  blithe  in 

bonds  550 

That  if  too  late  set  free  would  die  for  fear, 
Or  wild  birds  hunt  it  out  of  life  —  if  sad. 
Put  madness  in  me  for  her  suffering's  sake, 
If  joyous,  for  her  very  love's  sake  —  still 
Made  my  heart  mad  alike  to  serve  her,  being      555 
I  know  not  when  the  sweeter,  sad  or  blithe. 
Nor  what  mood  heavenliest  of  her,  all  whose 

change 
Was  as  of  stars  and  sun  and  moon  in  heaven ; 
She  is  well  content,  —  ye  have  heard  her  —  she, 

to  die. 
If  we  without  her  may  redeem  ourselves  560 

And  loose  our  lives  from  bondage;  but  her  friends 
Must  take  forsooth  good  heed  they  be  not,  no. 


Scene  I]  ^at^  ^tUHlt  31 

Too  hot  of  heart  to  serve  her  !    And  for  me, 
Am  I  so  vain  a  thing  of  wind  and  smoke 
That  your  deep  counsel  must  have  care  to  keep  565 
My    lightness    safe     in    wardship  ?     I     sought 

none  — 
Craved  no  man's  counsel  to  draw  plain  my  plot, 
Need  no  man's  warning  to  dispose  my  deed. 
Have  I  not  laid  of  mine  own  hand  a  snare 
To  bring  no  less  a  lusty  bird  to  lure  570 

Than  Walsingham  with  proffer  of  myself 
For    scout   and    spy  on  mine    own   friends  in 

France 
To  fill  his  wise  wide  ears  with  large  report 
Of  all  things  wrought  there  on  our  side,  and 

plots 
Laid  for  our  queen's  sake  ?  and  for  all  his  wit    575 
This  politic  knave  misdoubts  me  not,  whom  ye 
Hold  yet  too  light  and  lean  of  wit  to  pass 
Unspied  of  wise  men  on  our  enemies'  part. 
Who  have  sealed  the  subtlest  eyes  up  of  them 

all. 
Tich,    That  would  I  know  ;  for  if  they  be 

not  blind,  580 

But  only  wink  upon  your  proffer,  seeing 
More  than  they  let  your  own  eyes  find  or  fear, 
Why,  there  may  lurk  a  fire  to  burn  us  all 
Masked  in  them  with  false  blindness. 

Bab,  Hear  you,  sirs  ? 


32  ^ar^  g>tuart  [act  i. 

Now  by  the  faith  I  had  in  this  my  friend  585 

And  by  mine  own  yet  flawless  toward  him,  yea 
By  all  true  love  and  trust  that  holds  men  fast, 
It  shames  me  that  I  held  him  in  this  cause 
Half  mine  own  heart,  my  better  hand  and  eye. 
Mine  other  soul  and  worthier.    Pray  you,  go  ;     590 
Let  us  not  hold  you ;   sir,  be  quit  of  us ; 
Go  home,  lie  safe,  and  give  God  thanks ;  lie 

close. 
Keep  your  head  warm  and  covered;   nay,  be 

wise; 
We  are  fit  for  no  such  wise  folk's  fellowship. 
No  married  man's  who  being  bid  forth  to  fight  595 
Holds  his  wife's  kirtle  fitter  wear  for  man 
Than  theirs  who  put  on  iron  :   I  did  know  it. 
Albeit  I  would  not  know ;   this  man  that  was. 
This  soul  and  sinew  of  a  noble  seed. 
Love    and    the   lips  that   burn   a  bridegroom's 

through  600 

Have  charmed  to  deathward,  and  in  steel's  good 

stead 
Left  him  a  silken  spirit. 

Tich.  By  that  faith 

Which  yet  I  think  you  have  found  as  fast  in  me 
As  ever  yours  I  found,  you  wrong  me  more 
Than  were  I  that  your  words  can  make  me  not  605 
I  had  wronged  myself  and  all  our  cause  ;   I  hold 
No  whit  less  dear  for  love's  sake  even  than  love 


Scene  I]  ^WC^  ^tmVt  33 

Faith,  honour,  friendship,  all  that  all  my  days 
Was  only  dear  to  my  desire,  till  now 
This  new  thing  dear  as  all  these  only  were  6io 

Made  all  these  dearer.    If  my  love  be  less 
Toward  you,  toward  honour  or  this  cause,  then 

think 
I  love  my  wife  not  either,  whom  you  know 
How  close  at  heart  I  cherish,  but  in  all 
Play  false  alike.    Lead  now  which  way  you  will,  615 
And  wear  what  likeness  ;  though  to  all  men  else 
It  look  not  smooth,  smooth  shall  it  seem  to  me, 
And  danger  be  not  dangerous  j  where  you  go. 
For  me  shall  wildest  ways  be  safe,  and  straight 
For  me  the  steepest ;  with  your  eyes  and  heart  620 
Will  I  take  count  of  life  and  death,  and  think 
No  thought  against  your  counsel :  yea,  by  hea- 
ven, 
I  had  rather  follow  and  trust  my  friend  and  die 
Than  halt  and  hark  mistrustfully  behind 
To  live  of  him  mistrusted. 

Bab,  Why,  well  said  :        625 

Strike  hands  upon  it ;  I  think  you  shall  not  find 
A  trustless  pilot  of  me.    Keep  we  fast. 
And  hold  you  fast  my  counsel,  we  shall  see 
The  state  high-builded  here  of  heretic  hope 
Shaken  to  dust  and  death.    Here  comes  more 

proof  630 

To  warrant  me  no  liar.    You  are  welcome,  sirs  5 


34  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  i. 

Enter  Ballard,  disguise d,  and  Savage. 
Good    father    captain,    come    you    plumed    or 

cowled, 
Or  stoled  or  sworded,  here  at  any  hand 
The  true  heart  bids  you  welcome. 

Ballard.  Sir,  at  none 

Is  folly  welcome  to  mine  ears  or  eyes.  635 

Nay,  stare  not  on  me  stormily  ;  I  say, 
I  bid  at  no  hand  welcome,  by  no  name, 
Be  it  ne'er  so  wise  or  valiant  on  men's  lips. 
Pledge  health  to  folly,  nor  forecast  good  hope 
For  them  that  serve  her,  I,  but  take  of  men        640 
Things  ill  done  ill  at  any  hand  alike. 
Ye  shall  not  say  I  cheered  you  to  your  death. 
Nor  would,  though  nought  more  dangerous  than 

your  death 
Or  deadlier  for  our  cause  and  God's  in  ours 
Were  here  to  stand  the  chance  of,  and  your  blood  645 
Shed  vainly  with  no  seed  for  faith  to  sow 
Should  be  not  poison  for  men's  hopes  to  drink. 
What  is  this  picture  ?    Have  ye  sense  or  souls, 
Eyes,  ears,  or  wits  to  take  assurance  in 
Of  how  ye  stand  in  strange  men's  eyes  and  ears, 650 
How  fare  upon  their  talking  tongues,  how  dwell 
In  shot  of  their  suspicion,  and  sustain 
How  great  a  work  how  lightly  ?    Think   ye  not 
These  men    have    ears    and    eyes    about    your 

ways, 


Scene  L]  ^ar^  g^tUHIt  35 

Walk   with   your  feet,  work  with  your  hands, 

and  watch  ^55 

When  ye  sleep  sound  and  babble  in  your  sleep  ? 
What  knave  was  he,  or  whose  man  sworn  and 

spy, 

That  drank  with  you  last  night  ?  whose  hireling 

lip 

Was  this  that  pledged  you,  Master  Babington, 
To  a  foul  quean's  downfall  and  a  fair  queen's 

rise  ?  660 

Can    ye    not    seal    your  tongues    from   tavern 

speech. 
Nor  sup  abroad  but  air  may  catch  it  back. 
Nor  think  who  set  that  watch  upon  your  lips 
Yourselves  can  keep  not  on  them  ? 

Bab.  What,  my  friends  ! 

Here  is  one  come  to  counsel,  God  be  thanked,  665 
That  bears  commission  to  rebuke  us  all. 
Why,  hark  you,  sir,  you  that  speak  judgment, 

you 
That  take  our  doom  upon  your  double  tongue 
To  sentence  and  accuse  us  with  one  breath. 
Our  doomsman  and  our  justicer  for  sin,  670 

Good  Captain  Ballard,  Father  Fortescue, 
Who  made  you  guardian  of  us  poor  men,  gave 
Your  wisdom  wardship  of  our  follies,  chose 
Your  faith  for  keeper  of  our  faiths,  that  yet 
Were  never  taxed  of  change  or  doubted  ?    You,  675 


36  £par^  Stuart  [act  i. 

*T  is  you  that  have  an  eye  to  us,  and  take  note 

What  time  we  keep,  what  place,  what  company, 

How  far  may  wisdom  trust  us  to  be  wise 

Or  faith  esteem  us  faithful,  and  yourself 

Were  once  the  hireling  hand  and  tongue  and  eye  680 

That  waited  on  this  very  Walsingham 

To  spy  men's  counsels  and  betray  their  blood 

Whose  trust  had  sealed  you  trusty  ?     By  God's 

light, 
A  goodly  guard  I  have  of  you,  to  crave 
What  man  was  he  I  drank  with  yesternight,       685 
What  name,  what  shape,  what  habit,  as,  forsooth. 
Were  I  some  statesman's  knave  and  spotted  spy. 
The  man  I  served,  and  cared   not  how,  being 

dead. 
His  molten  gold  should  glut  my  throat  in  hell. 
Might  question  of  me  whom  I  snared  last  night,  690 
Make  inquisition  of  his  face,  his  gait. 
His  speech,  his   likeness.    Well,  be    answered 

then  ; 
By  God,  I  know  not ;  but  God  knows  I  think 
The  spy  most  dangerous  on  my  secret  walks 
And  witness  of  my  ways  most  worth  my  fear    695 
And  deadliest  listener  to  devour  my  speech 
Now  questions  me  of  danger,  and  the  tongue 
Most  like  to  sting  my  trust  and  life  to  death 
Now  taxes  mine  of  rashness. 

BaL  Is  he  mad  ? 


Scene  I.]  ^^X^  ^tUHtt  37 

Or  are  ye  brainsick  all  with  heat  of  wine  700 

That    stand    and    hear    him    rage  like   men   in 

storms 
Made  drunk  with  danger  ?    have  ye  sworn  with 

him 
To  die  the  fool's  death  too  of  furious  fear 
And  passion  scared  to  slaughter  of  itself  ? 
Is  there  none  here  that  knows  his  cause  or  me,  705 
Nor  what  should  save  or  spoil  us  ? 

Tich.  Friend,  give  ear; 

For  God's  sake,  yet  be  counselled. 

Bab.  Ay,  for  God's ! 

What  part  hath  God  in   this  man's  counsels  ? 

nay. 
Take  you  part  with  him  j  nay,  in  God's  name 

go; 
What  should  you  do  to  bide  with  me  ?  turn  back  5710 
There  stands  your  captain. 

Savage.  Hath  not  one  man  here 

One  spark  in  spirit  or  sprinkling  left  of  shame  ? 
I  that  looked  once  for  no  such  fellowship. 
But  soldier's  hearts  in  shapes  of  gentlemen, 
I  am  sick  with  shame   to  hear  men's  jangling 

tongues  715 

Outnoise  their  swords    unbloodied.    Hear   me, 

sirs  ; 
My  hand  keeps  time  before  my  tongue,  and  hath 
But  wit  to  speak  in  iron  ;  yet  as  now 


38  ^ar^  §>tuart  [act  i. 

Such  wit  were  sharp  enough  to  serve  our  turn 
That  keenest  tongues  may  serve  not.  One  thmg 

sworn  720 

Calls  on  our  hearts  ;  the  queen  must  singly  die, 
Or  we,  half  dead  men  now  with  dallying,  must 
Die  several  deaths  for  her  brief  one,  and  stretched 
Beyond  the  scope  of  sufferance  ;  wherefore  here 
Choose  out  the  man  to  put  this  peril  on  725 

And  gird  him  with  this  glory  ;  let  him  pass 
Straight  hence  to  court,  and  through  all  stays  of 

state 
Strike  death  into  her  heart. 

Bab.  Why,  this  rings  right ; 

Well  said,  and  soldierlike ;  do  thus,  and  take 
The  vanguard  of  us  all  for  honour. 

Sav.  Ay,  730 

Well  would  I  go,  but  seeing  no  courtly  suit 
Like  yours,  her  servants  and  her  pensioners, 
The  doorkeepers  will  bid  my  baseness  back 
From  passage  to  her  presence. 

Bab.  O,  for  that, 

Take  this  and  buy ;  nay,  start  not  from  your 

word ;  735 

You  shall  not. 

Sav.  Sir,  I  shall  not. 

Bab.  Here  's  more  gold  ; 

Make  haste,  and  God  go  with  you ;   if  the  plot 
Be  blown  on  once  of  men's  suspicious  breath. 


Scene  L]  ^Ht^  ^tUarC  39 

We  are  dead,  and  all  die  bootless  deaths  —  be 

swift  — 
And  her  we  have  served  we  shall  but  surely  slay.  740 
I  will  make  trial  again  of  Walsingham 
If  he  misdoubt  us.    O,  my  cloak  and  sword  — 

Knocking  within. 
I  will  go  forth  myself.    What  noise  is  that  ? 
Get  you  to  Gage's  lodging ;  stay  not  here  ; 
Make  speed  without  for  Westminster ;  perchance  745 
There  may  we  safely  shift  our  shapes  and  fly, 
If  the  end  be  come  upon  us. 

Bal.  It  is  here. 

Death  knocks  at  door  already.    Fly  ;  farewell. 
Bab.  I  would  not  leave  you  —  but  they  know 
you  not  — 
You  need  not  fear,  being  found  here  singly. 

Bal.  No.  75© 

Bab,  Nay,  halt  not,  sirs  ;  no  word  but  haste  ; 
this  way. 
Ere  they  break  down  the  doors.    God  speed  us 
well! 

Exeunt  all  but  Ballard,    As  they  go  out, 
enter  an  Officer  with  Soldiers, 
Officer,   Here  *s  one  fox  yet  by  the  foot ;  lay 

hold  on  him. 
Bal.  What  would  you,  sirs  ? 
Off,  Why,  make  one  foul  bird  fast, 

Though  the  full  flight  be  scattered:  for  their  kind 755 


40  ^ar^  g>tuart  [act  i. 

Must  prey  not  here  again,  nor  here  put  on 
The  jay's  loose  feathers  for  the  raven  priest's 
To    mock    the    blear-eyed    marksman :    these 

plucked  off 
Shall  show  the  nest  that  sent  this  fledgeling  forth, 
Hatched  in  the  hottest  holy  nook  of  hell.  760 

Bal.  I  am  a  soldier. 

Off.  Ay,  the  badge  we  know 

Whose  broidery  signs  the  shoulders  of  the  file 
That  Satan  marks  for  Jesus.    Bind  him  fast : 
Blue  satin  and  slashed  velvet  and  gold  lace, 
Methinks  we  have  you,  and  the  hat's  band  here  765 
So  seemly  set  with  silver  buttons,  all 
As  here  was  down  in  order ;   by  my  faith, 
A  goodly  ghostly  friend  to  shrive  a  maid 
As  ever  kissed  for  penance  :   pity  'tis 
The  hangman's  hands  must  hallow  him  again     770 
When  this  lay  slough  slips  off,  and  twist  one  rope 
For  priest  to   swing  with   soldier.    Bring  him 

hence.  Exeunt. 

Scene  II.  —  Chartky. 

Mary  Stuart  and  Mary  Beaton. 

Mary  Stuart.   We  shall  not  need  keep  house 
for  fear  to-day  ; 
The  skies  are  fair  and  hot ;   the  wind  sits  well 
For  hound  and  horn  to  chime  with.    I  will  go. 


Scene  II.]  ^Ht^  g>tUart  4I 

Mary  Beaton.   How  far  from  this  to  Tixall  ? 

Mary  Stuart.  Nine  or  ten 

Or  what  miles  more  I  care  not ;  we  shall  find       5 
Fair  field  and  goodly  quarry,  or  he  lies, 
The  gospeller  that  bade  us  to  the  sport, 
Protesting  yesternight  the  shire  had  none 
To  shame  Sir  Walter  Aston's.    God  be  praised, 
I  take  such  pleasure  yet  to  back  my  steed  10 

And  bear  my  crossbow  for  a  deer's  death  well, 
I  am  almost  half  content  —  and  yet  I  lie  — 
To  ride  no  harder  nor  more  dangerous  heat 
And  hunt  no  beast  of  game  less  gallant. 

Mary  Beaton.  Nay, 

You  grew  long  since  more  patient. 

Mary  Stuart.  Ah,  God  help  !    15 

What  should  I  do  but  learn  the  word  of  him 
These  years  and  years,  the  last  word  learnt  but 

one, 
That  ever  I  loved  least  of  all  sad  words  ? 
The  last  is  death  for  any  soul  to  learn. 
The  last  save  death  is  patience. 

Mary  Beaton.  Time  enough     20 

We  have  had  ere  death  of  life  to  learn  it  in 
Since  you  rode  last  on  wilder  ways  than  theirs 
That  drive  the  dun  deer  to  his  death. 

Mary  Stuart.  Eighteen  — 

How  many  more  years  yet  shall  God  mete  out 
For  thee  and  me  to  wait  upon  their  will  25 


42  ^ar^  g)tuart  [act  i. 

And  hope  or  hope  not,  watch  or  sleep,  and  dream 

Awake  or  sleeping  ?   surely  fewer,  I  think, 

Than  half  these  years  that  all  have  less  of  life 

Than  one  of  those  more  fleet  that  flew  before. 

I  am  yet  some  ten  years  younger  than  this  queen,  30 

Some  nine  or  ten  ;  but  if  I  die  this  year 

And  she  some  score  years  longer  than  I  think 

Be  royal-titled,  in  one  year  of  mine 

I  shall  have  lived  the  longer  life,  and  die 

The  fuller-fortuned  woman.    Dost  thou  mind      35 

The  letter  that  I  writ  nigh  two  years  gone 

To  let  her  wit  what  privacies  of  hers 

Our  trusty  dame  of  Shrewsbury's  tongue  made 

mine 
Ere  it  took  fire  to  sting  her  lord  and  me  ? 
How   thick   soe'er  o'erscurfed  with   poisonous 

lies,  40 

Of  her  I  am  sure  it  lied  not ;  and  perchance 
I  did  the  wiselier,  having  writ  my  fill. 
Yet  to  withhold  the  letter  when  she  sought 
Of  me  to  know  what  villainies  had  it  poured 
In  ears  of  mine  against  her  innocent  name  :  45 

And  yet  thou  knowest  what  mirthful  heart  was 

mine 
To  write  her  word  of  these,  that  had  she  read 
Had  surely,  being  but  woman,  made  her  mad. 
Or  haply,  being  not  woman,  had  not.    'Faith, 
How  say'st  thou  ?  did  I  well  ? 


Scene  II.]  ^WC^  ^tUait  43 

Mary  Beaton.  Ay,  surely  well    50 

To  keep  that  back  you  did  not  ill  to  write. 

Mary  Stuart.  I  think  so,  and  again  I  think 
not ;  yet 
The  best  I  did  was  bid  thee  burn  it.    She, 
That  other  Bess  I  mean  of  Hardwick,  hath 
Mixed  with  her  gall  the  fire  at  heart  of  hell,         55 
And  all  the  mortal  medicines  of  the  world 
To  drug  her  speech  with  poison ;  and  God  wot 
Her  daughter's  child  here  that  I  bred  and  loved, 
Bess  Pierpoint,  my  sweet  bedfellow  that  was, 
Keeps  too  much  savour  of  her  grandam's  stock  60 
For  me  to  match  with  Nau ;  my  secretary 
Shall  with  no  slip  of  hers  engraft  his  own. 
Begetting  shame  or  peril  to  us  all 
From  her  false  blood  and  fiery  tongue ;  except 
I  find  a  mate  as  meet  to  match  with  him  65 

For  truth  to  me  as  Gilbert  Curie  hath  found, 
I  will  play  Tudor  once  and  break  the  banns, 
Put  on  the  feature  of  Elizabeth 
To  frown  their  hands  in  sunder. 

Mary  Beaton,  Were  it  not 

Some  tyranny  to  take  her  likeness  on  70 

And  bitter-hearted  grudge  of  matrimony 
For  one  and  not  his  brother  secretary. 
Forbid  your  Frenchman's  banns  for  jealousy 
And  grace  your  English  with  such  liberal  love 
As  Barbara  fails  not  yet  to  find  of  you  75 


44  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  i. 

Since  she  writ  Curie  for  Mowbray  ?  and  herein 
There  shows  no  touch  of  Tudor  in  your  mood 
More  than  its  wont  is  ;  which  indeed  is  nought ; 
The  world,  they  say,  for  her  should  waste,  ere 

man 
Should  get  her  virginal  goodwill  to  wed.  80 

Mary  Stuart.   I  would  not  be  so  tempered  of 

my  blood. 
So  much  mismade  as  she  in  spirit  and  flesh. 
To  be  more  fair  of  fortune.    She  should  hate 
Not  me,  albeit  she  hate  me  deadly,  more 
Than  thee  or  any  woman.    By  my  faith,  85 

Fain  would  I  know,  what  knowing  not  of  her 

now 
I  muse  upon  and  marvel,  if  she  have 
Desire  or  pulse  or  passion  of  true  heart 
Fed  full  from  natural  veins,  or  be  indeed 
All  bare  and  barren  all  as  dead  men's  bones  90 

Of  all  sweet  nature  and  sharp  seed  of  love, 
And  those  salt  springs  of  life,  through  fire  and 

tears 
That  bring  forth  pain  and  pleasure  in  their  kind 
To  make  good  days  and  evil,  all  in  her 
Lie  sere  and  sapless  as  the  dust  of  death.  95 

I  have  found  no  great  good  hap  in  all  my  days 
Nor  much  good  cause  to  make  me  glad  of  God, 
Yet  have  I  had  and  lacked  not  of  my  life 
My  good  things  and  mine  evil :  being  not  yet 


Scene  II. ]  ^^ar^  g>tuart  45 

Barred  from  life's  natural  ends  of  evil  and  goodioo 
Foredoomed  for  man  and  woman  through  the 

world 
Till  all  their  works  be  nothing :   and  of  mine 
I  know  but  this  —  though  I  should  die  to-day, 
I  would  not  take  for  mine  her  fortune. 

Mary  Beaton.  No  ? 

Myself  perchance  I  would  not. 

Mary  Stuart,  Dost  thou  think  105 

That  fire-tongued  witch  of  Shrewsbury  spake 

once  truth 
Who  told  me  all  those  quaint  foul  merry  tales 
Of  our  dear  sister  that  at  her  desire 
I  writ  to  give  her  word  of,  and  at  thine 
Withheld  and  put  the  letter  in  thine  hand  "o 

To  burn  as  was  thy  counsel  ?   for  my  part, 
How  loud  she  lied  soever  in  the  charge 
That  for  adultery  taxed  me  with  her  lord 
And  being  disproved  before  the  council  here 
Brought  on  their  knees  to  give  themselves  the  liens 
Her  and  her  sons  by  that  first  lord  of  four 
That  took  in  turn  this  hell-mouthed  hag  to  wife 
And  got  her  kind  upon  her,  yet  in  this 
I  do  believe  she  lied  not  more  than  I 
Reporting  her  by  record,  how  she  said  120 

What  infinite  times  had  Leicester  and  his  queen 
Plucked  all  the  fruitless  fruit  of  baffled  love 
That  being  contracted  privily  they  might. 


46  £par^  Stuart  [act  i. 

With  what  large  gust  of  fierce  and  foiled  desire 
This  votaress   crowned,  whose  vow  could  no 

man  break,  125 

Since  God  whose  hand  shuts  up  the  unkindly 

womb 
Had  sealed  it  on  her  body,  man  by  man 
Would  course  her  kindless  lovers,  and  in  quest 
Pursue  them  hungering  as  a  hound  in  heat. 
Full  on  the  fiery  scent  and  slot  of  lust,  130 

That  men  took  shame  and  laughed  and  mar- 
velled; one, 
Her  chamberlain,  so  hotly  would  she  trace 
And  turn  perforce  from  cover,  that  himself 
Being  tracked  at  sight  thus  in  the  general  eye 
Was  even  constrained  to  play  the  piteous  hare   135 
And  wind  and  double  till  her  amorous  chase 
Were  blind  with  speed  and  breathless  ;  but  the 

worst 
Was  this, that  for  this  country's  sake  and  shame's 
Our  huntress  Dian  could  not  be  content 
With  Hatton  and  another  born  her  man  140 

And  subject  of  this  kingdom,  but  to  heap 
The  heavier  scandal  on  her  countrymen 
Had  cast  the  wild  growth  of  her  lust  away 
On  one  base-born,  a  stranger,  whom  of  nights 
Within  her  woman's  chamber  would  she  seek     HS 
To  kiss  and  play  for  shame  with  secretly  ; 
And  with  the  duke  her  bridegroom  that  should  be, 


Scene  IL]  ^0^X1^  g^tUatt  47 

That  should  and  could  not,  seeing  forsooth  no 

man 
Might  make  her  wife  or  woman,  had  she  dealt 
As  with  this  knave  his  follower;  for  by  night    150 
She  met  him  coming  at  her  chamber  door 
In  her  bare  smock  and  night-rail,  and  thereon 
Bade  him  come  in  ;  who  there  abode  three  hours: 
But  fools  were  they  that  thought  to  bind  her  will 
And  stay  with  one  man  or  allay  the  mood  155 

That  ranging  still  gave  tongue  on  several  heats 
To  hunt  fresh  trails  of  lusty  love  ;  all  this. 
Thou  knowest,  on  record  truly  was  set  down. 
With  much  more  villainous  else  :  she  prayed  me 

write 
That  she  might  know  the  natural  spirit  and  mind  160 
Toward  her  of  this  fell  witch  whose  rancorous 

mouth 
Then  bayed  my  name,  as  now  being  great  with 

child 
By  her  fourth  husband,  in  whose  charge  I  lay 
As  here  in  Paulet's;   so  being  moved  I  wrote, 
And  yet  I  would  she  had  read  it,  though  not  now  165 
Would  I  re-write  each  word  again,  albeit 
I  might,  or  thou,  were  I  so  minded,  or 
Thyself  so  moved  to  bear  such  witness  ;  but 
'T  is  well  we  know  not  how  she  had  borne  to 

read 
All  this  and  more,  what  counsel  gave  the  dame,  170 


48  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  i. 

With  loud  excess  of  laughter  urging  me 

To  enter  on  those  lists  of  love-making 

My  son  for  suitor  to  her,  who  thereby 

Might  greatly  serve  and  stead  me  in  her  sight  j 

And  I  replying  that  such  a  thing  could  be  175 

But  held  a  very  mockery,  she  returns, 

The  queen  was  so  infatuate  and  distraught 

With  high  conceit  of  her  fair  fretted  face 

As  of  a  heavenly  goddess,  that  herself 

Would  take  it  on  her  head  with  no  great  pains  180 

To  bring  her  to  believe  it  easily ; 

Being  so  past  reason  fain  of  flattering  tongues 

She  thought  they  mocked  her  not  nor  lied  who 

said 
They  might  not  sometimes  look  her  full  in  face 
For  the  light  glittering  from  it  as  the  sun ;  185 

And  so  perforce  must  all  her  women  say 
And  she  herself  that  spake,  who  durst  not  look 
For  fear  to  laugh  out  each  in  other's  face 
Even  while  they  fooled  and  fed  her  vein  with 

words. 
Nor  let  their  eyes  cross  when  they  spake  to  her  190 
And  set  their  feature  fast  as  in  a  frame 
To  keep  grave  countenance  with  gross  mockery 

lined  ; 
And   how  she  prayed  me  chide  her  daughter, 

whom 
She  might  by  no  means  move  to  take  this  way, 


Scene  II.  ]  ^Ht^  ^tUatt  49 

And  for  her  daughter  Talbot  was  assured  195 

She  could  not  ever  choose  but  laugh  outright 
Even  in  the  good  queen's  flattered  face.  God  wot, 
Had  she  read  all,  and  in  my  hand  set  down, 
I  could  not  blame  her  though  she  had  sought  to 

take 
My  head  for  payment ;  no  less  poise  on  earth    200 
Had  served,  and  hardly,  for  the  writer's  fee ; 
I  could  not  much  have  blamed  her;  all  the  less, 
That  I  did  take  this,  though  from  slanderous  lips, 
For  gospel  and  not  slander,  and  that  now 
I  yet  do  well  believe  it. 

Mary  Beaton,  And  herself  *o5 

Had  well  believed  so  much,  and  surely  seen, 
For  all  your  protest  of  discredit  made 
With  God  to  witness  that  you  could  not  take 
Such  tales  for  truth  of  her  nor  would  not,  yet 
You  meant  not  she  should  take  your  word  for 

this,  210 

As  well  I  think  she  would  not. 

Mary  Stuart,  Haply,  no. 

We  do  protest  not  thus  to  be  believed. 
And  yet  the    witch  in  one  thing    seven  years 

since 
Belied  her,  saying  she  then  must  needs  die  soon 
For  timeless  fault  of  nature.    Now  belike  215 

The  soothsaying  that  speaks  short  her  span  to  be 
May  prove  more  true  of  presage. 


50  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  i. 

Mary  Beaton.  Have  you  hope 

The  chase  to-day  may  serve  our  further  ends 
Than  to  renew  your  spirit  and  bid  time  speed  ? 

Mary  Stuart.   I  see  not  but  I  may  ;   the  hour 

is  full  220 

Which  I  was  bidden  expect  of  them  to  bear 
More  fruit  than  grows  of  promise  ;   Babington 
Should  tarry  now  not  long  ;  from  France  our 

friends 
Lift  up  their  heads  to  usward,  and  await 
What  comfort  may  confirm  them  from  our  parties 
Who  sent  us  comfort  ;   Ballard's  secret  tongue 
Has  kindled  England,  striking  from  men's  hearts 
As  from  a  flint  the  fire  that  slept,  and  made 
Their  dark  dumb  thoughts  and  dim  disfigured 

hopes 
Take    form    from    his    and     feature,    aim    and 

strength,  239 

Speech  and  desire  toward  action  ;  all  the  shires 
Wherein  the  force  lies  hidden  of  our  faith 
Are  stirred  and  set  on  edge  of  present  deed 
And  hope  more  imminent  now  of  help  to  come 
And  work  to  do  than  ever;  not  this  time  ^35 

We  hang  on  trust  in  succour  that  comes  short 
By  Philip's  fault  from  Austrian  John,  whose  death 
Put  widow's  weeds  on  mine  unwedded  hope, 
Late  trothplight  to  his  enterprise  in  vain 
That  was  to  set  me  free,  but  might  not  seal        240 


Scene  II.]  ^diV^  ^tUUTt  51 

The  faith  it  pledged  nor  on  the  hand  of  hope 

Make  fast  the  ring  that  weds  desire  with  deed 

And  promise  with  performance ;   Parma  stands 

More  fast  now  for  us  in  his  uncle's  stead, 

Albeit  the  lesser  warrior,  yet  in  place  ^45 

More  like  to  avail  us,  and  in  happier  time 

To  do  like  service ;  for  my  cousin  of  Guise, 

His  hand  and  league  hold  fast  our  kinsman  king. 

If  not  to  bend  and  shape  him  for  our  use. 

Yet  so  to  govern  as  he  may  not  thwart  250 

Our  forward  undertaking  till  its  force 

Discharge  itself  on  England  :   from  no  side 

I  see  the  shade  of  any  fear  to  fail 

As  those  before  so  baffled ;  heart  and  hand 

Our  hope  is  armed  with  trust  more  strong  than 

steel  255 

And  spirit  to  strike  more  helpful  than  a  sword 
In  hands  that  lack  the  spirit ;  and  here  to-day 
It  may  be  I  shall  look  this  hope  in  the  eyes 
And  see  her  face  transfigured.    God  is  good 
He  will  not  fail  his  faith  for  ever.    O,  260 

That  I  were  now  in  saddle  !    Yet  an  hour 
And  I  shall  be  as  young  again  as  May 
Whose  life  was  come  to  August ;  like  this  year, 
I  had  grown  past  midway  of  my  life,  and  sat 
Heartsick  of  summer ;  but  new-mounted  now    265 
I  shall  ride  right  through  shine  and  shade   of 

spring 


52  ^ar^  Stuart  [acti. 

With  heart  and  habit  of  a  bride,  and  bear 

A  brow  more  bright  than  fortune.    Truth  it  is, 

Those  words  of  bride  and   May   should  on   my 

tongue 
Sound  now  not  merry,  ring  no  joy-bells  out        270 
In  ears  of  hope  or  memory ;  not  for  me 
Have  they  been  joyous  words  ;  but  this  fair  day 
All  sounds  that  ring  delight  in  fortunate  ears 
And  words  that  make  men  thankful,  even  to  me 
Seem  thankworthy  for  joy  they  have  given  me 

not  275 

And  hope  which  now  they  should  not. 

Mary  Beaton.  Nay,  who  knows  \ 

The  less  they  have  given  of  joy,  the  more  they 

may; 
And  they  who  have  had  their  happiness  before 
Have  hope  not  in  the  future ;  time  o'erpast 
And  time  to  be  have  several  ends,  nor  wear        280 
One  forward  face  and  backward. 

Mary  Stuart.  God,  I  pray, 

Turn  thy  good  words  to  gospel,  and  make  truth 
Of  their  kind  presage  !  but  our  Scotswomen 
Would  say,  to  be  so  joyous  as  I  am. 
Though  I  had  cause,  as  surely  cause  I  have,       285 
Were  no  good  warrant  of  good  hope  for  me. 
I  never  took  such  comfort  of  my  trust 
In  Norfolk  or  Northumberland,  nor  looked 
For  such  good  end  as  now  of  all  my  fears 


Scene  II.]  ^gar^  g^tUHtt  53 

From  all  devices  past  of  policy  ^9° 

To  join  my  name  with  my  misnatured  son's 
In  handfast  pledge  with  England's,  ere  my  foes 
His  counsellors  had  flawed  his  craven  faith 
And  moved  my  natural  blood  to  cast  me  ofF 
Who  bore  him  in  my  body,  to  come  forth  295 

Less  childlike  than  a  changeling.    But  not  long 
Shall  they  find    means    by  him  to  work  their 

will. 
Nor  he  bear  head  against  me  ;  hope  was  his 
To  reign  forsooth  without  my  fellowship. 
And  he  that  with  me  would  not  shall  not  now  300 
Without  or  with  me  wield  not  or  divide 
Or  part  or  all  of  empire. 

Mary  Beaton.  Dear  my  queen. 

Vex   not    your    mood   with   sudden   change  of 

thoughts ; 
Your  mind  but  now  was  merrier  than  the  sun 
Half  rid  by  this  through  morning  :   we  by  noon  305 
Should  blithely  mount  and  meet  him. 

Mary  Stuart,  So  I  said. 

My  spirit  is  fallen  again  from  that  glad  strength 
Which  even  but  now  arrayed  it ;  yet  what  cause 
Should  dull  the  dancing  measure  in  my  blood 
For  doubt  or  wrath,  I  know  not.    Being  once 

forth,  310 

My  heart  again  will  quicken.  Sings. 


54  ^ar^  g>tuatt  [act  i. 

And  ye  maun  braid  your  yellow  hair 

And  busk  ye  like  a  bride  ; 
Wi'  sevenscore  men  to  bring  ye  hame, 

And  ae  true  love  beside  ,•  315 

Between  the  birk  and  the  green  rowan 

Fu'  blithely  shall  ye  ride. 

O  ye  maun  braid  my  yellow  hair, 

But  braid  it  like  nae  bride  ; 
And  I  maun  gang  my  ways,  mither,  320 

Wi'  nae  true  love  beside  ; 
Between  the  kirk  and  the  kirkyard 

Fu'  sadly  shall  I  ride. 

How  long  since, 
How  long  since  was  it  last  I  heard  or  sang 
Such  light  lost  ends  of  old  faint  rhyme  worn  thin  325 
With  use  of  country  songsters  .?  When  we  twain 
Were  maidens  but  some  twice  a  span's  length 

high, 
Thou  hadst  the  happier  memory  to  hold  rhyme. 
But  not  for  songs  the  merrier. 

Mary  Beaton.  This  was  one 

That  I  would  sing  after  my  nurse,  I  think,         330 
And  weep  upon  in  France  at  six  years  old 
To  think  of  Scotland. 

Mary  Stuart.  Would  I  weep  for  that. 

Woman  or  child,  I  have  had  now  years  enough 
To  weep  in ;  thou  wast  never  French  in  heart. 
Serving  the  queen  of  France.     Poor  queen  that 

was,  33J 


scENK  II.]  ^ar^  g^tuart  55 

Poor  boy  that  played  her  bridegroom  !  now  they 

seem 
In  these  mine  eyes  that  were  her  eyes  as  far 
Beyond  the  reach  and  range  of  oldworld  time 
As  their  first  fathers'  graves. 

Enter  Sir  Amy  as  Paulet. 

Paulet.  Madam,  if  now 

It  please  you  to  set  forth,  the  hour  is  full,  340 

And  there  your  horses  ready. 

Mart  Stuart,  Sir,  my  thanks. 

We  are  bounden  to  you  and  this  goodly  day 
For  no  small  comfort.  Is  it  your  will  we  ride 
Accompanied  with  any  for  the  nonce 
Of  our  own  household  ? 

Paul.  If  you  will,  to-day         345 

Your  secretaries  have  leave  to  ride  with  you. 

Mary  Stuart.  We  keep  some  state  then  yet.  I 
pray  you,  sir. 
Doth  he  wait  on  you  that  came  here  last  month, 
A  low-built  lank-cheeked  Judas-bearded  man. 
Lean,  supple,  grave,  pock-pitten,  yellow-polled,  350 
A  smiling  fellow  with  a  downcast  eye  ? 

Paul.    Madam,  I  know  the  man  for  none  of 
mine. 

Mary  Stuart.    I  give  you  joy  as  you  should 
give  God  thanks. 
Sir,  if  I  err  not;  but  meseemed  this  man 
Found  gracious  entertainment  here,  and  took      355 


56  £par^  g)tuart  [act  i. 

Such  counsel  with  you  as  I  surely  thought 

Spake  him  your  friend,  and  honourable  ;  but  now 

If  I  misread  not  an  ambiguous  word 

It  seems  you  know  no  more  of  him  or  less 

Than  Peter  did,  being  questioned,  of  his  Lord.    360 

Paul.  I  know  not  where  the  cause  were  to  be 
sought 
That  might  for  likeness  or  unlikeness  found 
Make  seemly  way  for  such  comparison 
As  turns  such  names  to  jest  and  bitterness ; 
Howbeit,  as  I  denied  not  nor  disclaimed  365 

To  know  the  man  you  speak  of,  yet  I  may 
With  very  purity  of  truth  profess 
The  man  to  be  not  of  my  following. 

Mary  Stuart.  See 

How  lightly  may  the  tongue  that  thinks  no  ill 
Or  trip  or  slip,  discoursing  that  or  this  370 

With  grave  good  men  in  purity  and  truth, 
And  come  to  shame  even  with  a  word  !    God 

wot, 
We  had  need  put  bit  and  bridle  in  our  lips 
Ere  they  take  on  them  of  their  foolishness 
To  change  wise  words  with  wisdom.     Come,  375 

sweet  friend. 
Let  us  go  seek  our  kind  with  horse  and  hound 
To  keep  us  witless  company ;  belike, 
There  shall  we  find  our  fellows. 

Exeunt  Mary  Stuart  and  Mary  Beaton^ 


Scene  IL]  ^ar^  ^tXlUtt  57 

Paul,  Would  to  God 

This  day  had  done  its  office  !   mine  till  then 
Holds  me  the  verier  prisoner. 
£;iter  Phillipps, 

Phillipps,  She  will  go  ?         380 

Paul.  Gladly,  poor  sinful  fool ;  more  gladly, 
sir. 
Than  I  go  with  her. 

Phill.  Yet  you  go  not  far 

She  is  come  too  near  her  end  of  wayfaring 
To  tire  much  more  men's  feet  that  follow. 

Paul.  Ay. 

She  walks  but  half  blind  yet  to  the  end  ;  even  now  385 
She  spake  of  you,  and  questioned  doubtfully 
What  here  you  came  to  do,  or  held  what  place 
Or  commerce  with  me :  when  you  caught  her 

eye. 
It  seems  your  courtesy  by  some  graceless  chance 
Found  but  scant  grace  with  her. 

Phill.  'T  is  mine  own  blame,  390 

Or  fault  of  mine  own  feature ;  yet  forsooth 
I  greatly  covet  not  their  gracious  hap 
Who  have  found  or  find  most  grace  with  her.  I 

pray. 
Doth  Wade  go  with  you  ? 

Paul.  Nay,  —  what,  know  you  not  ?  — 

But  with  Sir  Thomas  Gorges,  from  the  court,    395 
To  drive  this  deer  at  Tixall. 


58  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  i. 

PhilL  Two  years  since, 

He  went,  I  think,  commissioned  from  the  queen 
To  treat  with  her  at  Sheffield  ? 

Paul.  Ay,  and  since 

She  hath  not  seen  him ;  who  being  known  of 

here 
Had  haply  given  her  swift  suspicion  edge  400 

Or  cause  at  least  of  wonder. 

PhilL  And  I  doubt 

His  last  year's  entertainment  oversea 
As  our  queen's  envoy  to  demand  of  France 
Her  traitor  Morgan's  body,  whence  he  brought 
Nought  save  dry  blows  back  from    the   duke  405 

d'Aumale 
And  for  that  prisoner's  quarters  here  to  hang 
His  own  not  whole  but  beaten,  should  not  much 
Incline  him  to  more  good  regard  of  her 
For  whose  love's  sake  her  friends  have  dealt  with 

him 
So  honourably,  nor  she  that  knows  of  this  410 

Be  the  less  like  to  take  his  presence  here 
For  no  good  presage  to  her :  you  have  both  done 

well 
To  keep  his  hand  as  close  herein  as  mine. 

Paul.  Sir,  by  my  faith  I  know  not,  for  myself. 
What  part  is  for  mine  honour,  or  wherein  415 

Of  all  this  action  laid  upon  mine  hand 
The  name  and  witness  of  a  gentleman 


Scene  II.]  ^at^  ^tVLWX  59 

May  gain  desert  or  credit,  and  increase 

In  seed  and  harvest  of  good  men*s  esteem 

For  heritage  to  his  heirs,  that  men  unborn  420 

Whose  fame  is  as  their  name  derived  from  his 

May  reap  in  reputation  ;  and  indeed 

I  look  for  none  advancement  in  the  world 

Further  than  this  that  yet  for  no  man's  sake 

Would  I  forego,  to  keep  the  name  I  have  425 

And  honour,  which  no  son  of  mine  shall  say 

I  have  left  him  not  for  any  deed  of  mine 

As  perfect  as  my  sire  bequeathed  it  me : 

I  say,  for  any  word  or  work  yet  past 

No  tongue  can  thus  far  tax  me  of  decline  430 

From  that  fair  forthright  way  of  gentleman. 

Nor  shall  for  any  that  I  think  to  do 

Or  aught  I  think  to  say  alive :  howbeit, 

I  were  much  bounden  to  the  man  would  say 

But  so  much  for  me  in  our  mistress'  ear,  435 

The  treasurer's,  or  your  master  Walsingham's, 

Whose  office  here  I  have  undergone  thus  long 

And  had  I  leave  more  gladly  would  put  off 

Than  ever  I  put  on  me ;  being  not  one 

That  out  of  love  toward  England  even  or  God  440 

At  mightiest  men's  desire  would  lightly  be 

For  loyalty  disloyal,  or  approved 

In  trustless  works  a  trusty  traitor ;  this 

He  that  should  tell  them  of  me,  to  procure 

The  speedier  end  here  of  this  work  imposed,     445 


6o  ^ar^  §)tuart  [act  i. 

Should  bind  me  to  him  more  heartily  than  thanks 
Might  answer. 

PhilL  Good  Sir  Amyas,  you  and  I 

Hold  no  such  office  in  this  dangerous  time 
As  men  make  love  to  for  their  own  name's  sake 
Or  personal  lust  of  honour  ;  but  herein  450 

I  pray  you  yet  take  note,  and  pardon  me 
If  I  for  the  instance  mix  your  name  with  mine, 
That  no  man's  private  honour  lies  at  gage, 
Nor  is  the  stake  set  here  to  play  for  less 
Than  what  is  more  than  all  men's  names  alive,4S5 
The  great  life's  gage   of  England ;    in   whose 

name 
Lie  all  our  own  impledged,  as  all  our  lives 
For  her  redemption  forfeit,  if  the  cause 
Call  once  upon  us ;  not  this  gift  or  this, 
Or  what  best  likes  us  or  were  gladliest  given      460 
Or  might  most  honourably  be  parted  with 
For  our  more  credit  on  her  best  behalf, 
Doth  she  we  serve,  this  land  that  made  us  men. 
Require  of  all  her  children  ;  but  demands 
Of  our  great  duty  toward  her  full  deserts  465 

Even  all  we  have  of  honour  or  of  life, 
Of  breath  or  fame  to  give  her.    What  were  I 
Or  what  were  you,  being  mean  or  nobly  born. 
Yet  moulded  both  of  one  land's  natural  womb 
And  fashioned  out  of  England,  to  deny  470 

What  gift  she  crave  soever,  choose  and  grudge 


Scene  II.]  ^Ht^  ^tUHIt  6l 

What  grace  we  list  to  give  or  what  withhold, 

Refuse  and  reckon  with  her  when  she  bids 

Yield  up  forsooth  not  life  but  fame  to  come, 

A  good  man's  praise  or  gentleman's  repute,        475 

Or  lineal  pride  of  children,  and  the  light 

Of  loyalty  remembered  ?  which  of  these 

Were  worth  our  mother's  death,  or  shame  that 

might 
Fall  for  one  hour  on  England  ?    She  must  live 
And  keep  in  all  men's  sight  her  honour  fast       480 
Though  all  we  die  dishonoured ;  and  myself 
Know  not  nor  seek  of  men's  report  to  know 
If  what  I  do  to  serve  her  till  I  die 
Be  honourable  or  shameful,  and  its  end 
Good  in  men's  eyes  or  evil ;  but  for  God,  485 

I  find  not  why  the  name  or  fear  of  him 
Herein  should  make  me  swerve  or  start  aside 
Through   faint   heart's   falsehood   as   a   broken 

bow 
Snapped  in  his  hand  that  bent  it,  ere  the  shaft 
Find  out  his  enemies'  heart,  and  I  that  end         490 
Whereto  I  am  sped  for  service  even  of  him 
Who  put  this  office  on  us. 

Paul.  Truly,  sir, 

I  lack  the  wordy  wit  to  match  with  yours. 
Who  speak  no  more  than  soldier ;  this  I  know, 
I  am  sick  in  spirit  and  heart  to  have  in  hand      495 
Such  work  or  such  device  of  yours  as  yet 


62  spar^  ^tuarc  [act  i. 

For  fear  and  conscience  of  what  worst  may  come 
I  dare  not  well  bear  through. 

Phill.  Why,  so  last  month 

You  writ  my  master  word  and  me  to  boot 
I  had  set  you  down  a  course  for  many  things     500 
You  durst  not  put  in  execution,  nor 
Consign  the  packet  to  this  lady's  hand 
That  was  returned  from  mine,  seeing  all  was 

well. 
And  you  should  hold  yourself  most  wretched 

man 
If  by  your  mean  or  order  there  should  spring      505 
Suspicion  'twixt  the  several  messengers 
Whose  hands  unwitting  each  of  other  ply 
The  same  close  trade  for  the  same  golden  end, 
While  either  holds  his  mate  a  faithful  fool 
And  all  their  souls,  baseborn  or  gently  bred,       s^o 
Are  coined  and  stamped  and  minted  for  our  use 
And  current  in  our  service ;   I  thereon 
To  assuage  your  doubt  and  fortify  your  fear 
Was  posted  hither,  where  by  craft  and  pains 
The  web  is  wound  up  of  our  enterprise  515 

And  in  our  hands  we  hold  her  very  heart 
As  fast  as  all  this  while  we  held  impawned 
The  faith  of  Barnes  that  stood  for  Gifford  here 
To  take  what  letters  for  his  mistress  came 
From    southward    through    the    ambassador  of 

France  520 


Scene  II. ]  ^ar^  g>tUait  63 

And  bear  them  to  the  brewer,  your  honest  man, 
Who  wist  no  further  of  his  fellowship 
Than  he  of  GifFord's,  being  as  simple  knaves 
As  knavish  each  in  his  simplicity. 
And  either  serviceable  alike,  to  shift  525 

Between  my  master's  hands  and  yours  and  mine 
Her  letters  writ  and  answered  to  and  fro ; 
And  all  these  faiths  as  weathertight  and  safe 
As  was  the  box  that  held  those  letters  close 
At  bottom  of  the  barrel,  to  give  up  530 

The  charge  there  sealed  and  ciphered,  and  re- 
ceive 
A  charge  as  great  in  peril  and  in  price 
To  yield  again,  when  they  drew  off  the  beer 
That  weekly  served  this  lady's  household  whom 
We  have  drained  as  dry  of  secrets  drugged  with 

death  535 

As  ever  they  this  vessel,  and  return 
To  her  own  lips  the  dregs  she  brewed  or  we 
For  her  to  drink  have  tempered.    What  of  this 
Should  seem  so  strange  now  to  you,  or  distaste 
So  much  the  daintier  palate  of  your  thoughts,     540 
That  I  should  need  reiterate  you  by  word 
The  work  of  us  overpast,  or  fill  your  ear 
With  long  foregone  recital,  that  at  last 
Your  soul  may  start  not  or  your  sense  recoil 
To  know  what  end  we   are  come  to,  or  what 

hope  545 


64  ^m  §>tUait  [Act  I. 

We  took  in  hand  to  cut  this  peril  off 
By  what  close  mean  soe'er  and  what  foul  hands 
Unwashed  of  treason,  which  it  yet  mislikes 
Your  knightly  palm   to  touch   or   close   with, 

seeing 
The  grime  of  gold  is  baser  than  of  blood  550 

That  barks  their  filthy  fingers  ?  yet  with  these 
Must  you  cross  hands  and  grapple,  or  let  fall 
The  trust  you  took  to  treasure. 

Paul.  Sir,  I  will. 

Even  till  the  queen  take  back  that  gave  it ;  yet 
Will  not  join  hands  with  these,  nor  take  on  mine  555 
The  taint  of  their  contagion  ;  knowing  no  cause 
That  should  confound  or  couple  my  good  name 
With  theirs  more  hateful  than  the  reek  of  hell. 
You  had  these   knaveries  and  these  knaves  in 

charge. 
Not  I  that  knew  not  how  to  handle  them  560 

Nor  whom  to  choose  for  chief  of  treasons,  him 
That  in  mine  ignorant  eye,  unused  to  read 
The  shameful  scripture  of  such  faces,  bare 
Graved   on   his   smooth  and  simple  cheek  and 

brow 
No  token  of  a  traitor  ;  yet  this  boy,  565 

This  milk-mouthed   weanling  with  his  maiden 

chin. 
This  soft-lipped  knave,  late  suckled  as  on  blood 
And  nursed  of  poisonous  nipples,  have  you  not 


Scene  II. ]  ^at^  ^tmit  65 

Found  false   or  feared  by  this,  whom  first  you 

found 
A  trustier  thief  and  worthier  of  his  wage  570 

Than  I,  poor  man,  had  wit  to  find  him  ?    I, 
That  trust  no  changelings  of  the  church  of  hell, 
No  babes  reared  priestlike  at  the  paps  of  Rome 
Who  have  left  the    old  harlot's    deadly   dugs 

drawn  dry, 
I  lacked  the  craft  to  rate  this  knave  of  price,      575 
Your  smock-faced  Gifford,  at  his  worth  aright, 
Which  now  comes  short  of  promise. 

PhilL  O,  not  he; 

Let  not  your  knighthood  for  a  slippery  word 
So  much   misdoubt   his  knaveship;  here   from 

France, 
On  hint  of  our  suspicion  in  his  ear  580 

Half  jestingly  recorded,  that  his  hand 
Were  set  against  us  in  one  politic  track 
With  his  old  yoke-fellows  in  craft  and  creed. 
Betraying  not  them  to  us  but  ourselves  to  them, 
My  Gilbert  writes  me  with  such  heat  of  hand     585 
Such  piteous  protestation  of  his  faith 
So  stuffed  and  swoln  with  burly-bellied  oaths 
And  God  and  Christ  confound  him  if  he  lie 
And  Jesus  save  him  as  he  speaks  mere  truth. 
My  gracious  godly  priestling,  that  yourself  590 

Must  sure  be  moved  to  take  his  truth  on  trust 
Or  stand  for  him  approved  an  atheist. 


66  ^pari?  Stuart  [act  i. 

Paul.  Well, 

That  you  find  stuff  of  laughter  in  such  gear 
And  mirth  to  make  out  of  the  godless  mouth 
Of  such  a  twice-turned  villain,  for  my  part         595 
I  take  in  token  of  your  certain  trust. 
And  make  therewith  mine  own  assurance  sure, 
To  see  betimes  an  end  of  all  such  craft 
As  takes  the  faith  forsworn  of  loud-tongued  liars 
And  blasphemies  of  brothel-breathing  knaves      600 
To  build  its  hope  or  break  its  jest  upon  ; 
And  so  commend  you  to  your  charge,  and  take 
Mine  own  on  me  less  gladly ;  for  by  this 
She  should  be  girt  to  ride,  as  the  old  saw  saith, 
Out  of  God's  blessing  into  the  warm  sun  605 

And  out  of  the  warm  sun  into  the  pit 
That  men  have  dug  before  her,  as  herself 
Had  dug  for  England  else  a  deeper  grave 
To  hide  our  hope  for  ever  :  yet  I  would 
This  day  and  all  that  hang  on  it  were  done.        610 

Exeunt. 

Scene  III.  —  Before  Tixall  Park. 

Mary  Stuarty  Mary  Beatoriy  Paulet,  Curie,  NaUy  and 
Attendants. 

Mary  Stuart.  If  I   should  never  more  back 
steed  alive 
But  now  had  ridden  hither  this  fair  day 
The  last  road  ever  I  must  ride  on  earth, 


Scene  III]  ^at^  ^CUait  67 

Yet  would  I  praise  It,  saying  of  all  days  gone 
And  all  roads  ridden  in  sight  of  stars  and  sun        5 
Since  first  I  sprang  to  saddle,  here  at  last 
I  had   found   no  joyless  end.    These  ways  are 

smooth, 
And  all  this  land's  face  merry ;  yet  I  find 
The  ways  even  therefore  not  so  good  to  ride, 
And  all  the  land's  face  therefore  less  worth  love,  10 
Being  smoother  for  a  palfrey's  maiden  pace 
And  merrier  than  our  moors  for  outlook ;    nay, 
I  lie  to  say  so ;  there  the  wind  and  sun 
Make  madder  mirth  by  midsummer,  and  fill 
With  broader  breath  and  lustier  length  of  light     15 
The  heartier  hours  that  clothe  for  even  and  dawn 
Our  bosom-belted  billowy-blossoming  hills 
Whose  hearts  break  out  in  laughter  like  the  sea 
For  miles  of  heaving  heather.    Ye  should  mock 
My  banished  praise  of  Scotland ;  and  in  faith       20 
I  praised  it  but  to  prick  you  on  to  praise 
Of  your  own  goodly  land  ;  though  field  and  wood 
Be  parked  and  parcelled  to  the  sky's  edge  out. 
And  this  green  Stafford  moorland  smooth  and 

strait 
That  we  but  now  rode  over,  and  by  ours  25 

Look  pale  for  lack  of  large  live  mountain  bloom 
Wind-bufFeted  with  morning,  it  should  be 
Worth  praise  of  men  whose  lineal  honour  lives 
In  keeping  here  of  history  :  but  meseems 


68  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  i. 

I  have  heard,  Sir  Amyas,  of  your  liberal  west       30 
As  of  a  land  more  affluent-souled  than  this 
And  fruitful-hearted  as  the  south-wind ;   here 
I  find  a  fair-faced  change  of  temperate  clime 
From  that  bald  hill-brow  in  a  broad  bare  plain 
Where  winter  laid  us  both  his  prisoners  late         35 
Fast  by  the  feet  at  Tutbury;  but  men  say 
Your  birthright  in  this  land  is  fallen  more  fair 
In  goodlier  ground  of  heritage  :   perchance, 
Grief  to  be  now  barred  thence  by  mean  of  me, 
Who  less  than  you  can  help  it  or  myself,  40 

Makes  you  ride  sad  and  sullen. 

Paulet.  Madam,  no ; 

I  pray  you  lay  not  to  my  wilful  charge 
The  blame  or  burden  of  discourtesy 
That  but  the  time  should  bear  which  lays  on  me 
This  weight  of  thoughts  untimely. 

Mary  Stuart.  Nay,  fair  sir,  45 

If  I,  that  have  no  cause  in  life  to  seem 
Glad  of  my  sad  life  more  than  prisoners  may, 
Take  comfort  yet  of  sunshine,  he  methinks 
That  holds  in  ward  my  days  and  nights  might 

well 
Take  no  less  pleasure  of  this  broad  blithe  air        50 
Than  his  poor  charge  that  too  much  troubles 

him. 
What,  are  we  nigh  the  chase  ? 

Paul.  Even  hard  at  hand. 


Scene  III.]  ^at^  ^tUait  69 

Mary  Stuart.   Can  I  not  see  between  the  glit- 
tering leaves 
Gleam  the  dun  hides  and  flash  the  startled  horns 
That   we   must   charge   and   scatter  ?    Were  1 

queen  55 

And  had  a  crown  to  wager  on  my  hand, 
Sir,  I  would  set  it  on  the  chance  to-day 
To  shoot  a  flight  beyond  you. 

Paul.  Verily, 

The  hazard  were  too  heavy  for  my  skill  : 
I  would  not  hold  your  wager. 

Mary  Stuart.  No  !   and  why  ?     60 

Paul.  For  fear  to  come  a  bowshot  short  of  you 
On  the  left  hand,  unluckily. 

Mary  Stuart.  My  friend. 

Our  keeper's  wit-shaft  is  too  keen  for  ours 
To  match  its  edge  with  pointless  iron. —  Sir, 
Your  tongue  shoots  further  than  my  hand  or 

eye  65 

With  sense  or  aim  can  follow.  —  Gilbert  Curie, 
Your  heart  yet  halts  behind  this  cry  of  hounds. 
Hunting  your  own  deer's  trail  at  home,  who  lies 
Now  close  in  covert  till  her  bearing-time 
Be  full  to  bring  forth  kindly  fruit  of  kind  70 

To  love  that  yet  lacks  issue  ;   and  in  sooth 
I  blame  you  not  to  bid  all  sport  go  by 
For  one  white  doe's  sake  travailing,  who  myself 
Think  long  till  I  may  take  within  mine  arm 


70  ^ar^  Stuart  [acti. 

The  soft  fawn  suckling  that  is  yeaned  not  yet      75 
But  is  to  make  her  mother.    We  must  hold 
A  goodly  christening  feast  with  prisoner's  cheer 
And  mirth  enow  for  such  a  tender  thing 
As  will  not  weep  more  to  be  born  in  bonds 
Than   babes    born    out   of   gaoler's    ward,  nor 

grudge  80 

To  find  no  friend  more  fortunate  than  I 
Nor  happier  hand  to  welcome  it,  nor  name 
More  prosperous  than  poor  mine  to  wear,  if  God 
Shall  send  the  new-made  mother's  breast,  for 

love 
Of  us  that  love  his  mother's  maidenhood,  85 

A  maid  to  be  my  namechild,  and  in  all 
Save  love  to  them  that  love  her,  by  God's  grace, 
Most  unlike  me ;   for  whose  unborn  sweet  sake 
Pray  you  meantime  be  merry.  —  'Faith,  methinks 
Here  be  more  huntsmen  out  afield  to-day  90 

And  merrier  than  my  guardian.    Sir,  look  up ; 
What  think  you  of  these  riders  ? — All  my  friends, 
Make  on  to  meet  them. 

Paul,  There  shall  need  no  haste ; 

They  ride  not  slack  or  lamely. 

Mary  Stuart.  Now,  fair  sir. 

What  say  you  to  my  chance  on  wager  ?   here       95 
I  think    to    outshoot    your    archery.  —  By   my 

life. 
That  too  must  fail  if  hope  now  fail  me ;  these 


Scene  III.]  ^Ut^  ^tVLUtt  J I 

That  ride  so  far  off  yet,  being  come,  shall  bring 
Death  or  deliverance.    Prithee,  speak  but  once ; 

JsiJe  to  Mary  Beaton. 
Say,  these  are  they  we  looked  for ;  say,  thou  tooioo 
Hadst  hope  to  meet  them;  say,  they  should  be 

here, 
And  I  did  well  to  look  for  them ;  O  God  ! 
Say  but  I  was  not  mad  to  hope ;  see  there ; 
Speak,  or  I  die. 

Mary  Beaton.        Nay,  not  before  they  come. 
Mary  Stuart.  Dost  thou  not  hear  my  heart  ? 
it  speaks  so  loud  105 

I  can  hear  nothing  of  them.    Yet  I  will  not 
Fail  in  mine  enemy's  sight.    This  is  mine  hour 
That  was  to  be  for  triumph ;   God,  I  pray. 
Stretch  not  its  length  out  longer ! 

Mary  Beaton.  It  is  past. 

Enter  Sir  Thomas  Gorges,  Sir  William  Wade,  and 
Soldiers. 
Mary  Stuart.  What  man  is  this  that  stands 

across  our  way  ?  "o 

Gorges.   One  that  hath  warrant,  madam,  from 
the  queen 
To  arrest  your  French  and  English  secretary 
And  for  more  surety  see  yourself  removed 
To  present  ward  at  Tixall  here  hard  by. 
As  in  this  paper  stands  of  her  subscribed.  "5 

Lay  hands  on  them. 


72  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  i. 

Mary  Stuart.       Was  this  your  riddle's  word  ? 

To  Paulet. 
You  have  shot  beyond  me  indeed,  and  shot  to 

death 
Your  honour  with  my  life.  —  Draw,  sirs,  and 

stand  ; 
Ye  have  swords  yet  left  to  strike  with  once,  and 

die 
By  these  our  foes  are  girt  with.     Some  good 

friend —  120 

I  should  have  one  yet  left  of  you  —  take  heart 
And  slay  me  here.    For  God's  love,  draw  ;  they 

have  not 
So  large  a  vantage  of  us  we  must  needs 
Bear  back  one  foot  from  peril.    Give  not  way ; 
Ye  shall  but  die  more  shamefully  than  here         125 
Who  can  but  here  die  fighting.     What,  no  man  ? 
Must  I  find  never  at  my  need  alive 
A  man  with  heart  to  help  me  ?    O,  my  God, 
Let  me  die  now  and  foil  them  !    Paulet,  you. 
Most  knightly  liar  and  traitor,  was  not  this         130 
Part  of  your  charge,  to  play  my  hangman  too. 
Who  have  played  so  well  my  doomsman,  and 

betrayed 
So  honourably  my  trust,  so  bravely  set 
A  snare  so  loyal  to  make  sure  for  death 
So  poor  a  foolish  woman  ?    Sir,  or  you  135 

That  have  this  gallant  office,  great  as  his, 


Scene  III.]  ^^t^  ^tURtt  73 

To  do  the  deadliest  errand  and  most  vile 

That  even  your  mistress  ever  laid  on  man 

And  sent  her  basest  knave  to  bear  and  slay, 

You  are  likewise  of  her  chivalry,  and  should  not  140 

Shrink  to  fulfil  your  title  ;  being  a  knight. 

For  her  dear  sake  that  made  you,  lose  not  heart 

To  strike  for  her  one  worthy  stroke,  that  may 

Rid  me  defenceless  of  the  loathed  long  life 

She  gapes  for  like  a  bloodhound.    Nay,  I  find     145 

A  face  beside  you  that  should  bear  for  me 

Not  life  inscribed  upon  it ;  two  years  since 

I  read  therein  at  Sheffield  what  goodwill 

She  bare  toward  me  that  sent  to  treat  withal 

So  mean  a  man  and  shameless,  by  his  tongue      150 

To  smite  mine  honour  on  the  face,  and  turn 

My  name  of  queen  to  servant ;  by  his  hand 

So  let  her  turn  my  life's  name  now  to  death. 

Which  I  would  take  more  thankfully  than  shame 

To  plead  and  thus  prevail  not. 

Paul.  Madam,  no,       155 

With  us  you  may  not  in  such  suit  prevail 
Nor  we  by  words  or  wrath  of  yours  be  moved 
To  turn  their  edge  back  on  you,  nor  remit 
The  least  part  of  our  office,  which  deserves 
Nor  scorn  of  you  nor  wonder,  whose  own  act    160 
Has  laid  it  on  us  ;  wherefore  with  less  rage 
Please  you  take  thought  now  to  submit  yourself, 
Even  for  your  own  more  honour,  to  the  effect 


74  ^m  Stuart  [Act  I. 

Whose  cause  was  of  your  own  device,  that  here 
Bears  fruit  unlocked  for ;  which  being  ripe  in  time  165 
You  cannot  choose  but  taste  of,  nor  may  we 
But  do  the  season's  bidding,  and  the  queen's 
Who  weeps  at  heart  to  know  it.  —  Disarm  these 

men; 
Take  you  the  prisoners  to  your  present  ward 
And  hence  again  to  London  ;  here  meanwhile    170 
Some  week  or  twain  their  lady  must  lie  close 
And  with  a  patient  or  impatient  heart 
Expect  an  end  and  word  of  judgment ;   I 
Must  with  Sir  William  back  to  Chartley  straight 
And  there  make  inquisition  ere  day  close  175 

What  secret  serpents  of  what  treasons  hatched 
May  in  this  lady's  papers  lurk,  whence  we 
Must  pluck  the  fangs  forth  of  them  yet  unfleshed, 
And  lay  these  plots  like  dead  and  strangled  snakes 
Naked  before  the  council. 

Mary  Stuart.  I  must  go  ?  180 

Gorges,    Madam,  no  help ;  I  pray  your  pardon. 
Mary  Stuart.  Ay? 

Had  I  your  pardon  in  this  hand  to  give. 
And  here  in  this  my  vengeance  —  Words,  and 

words  ! 
God,  for  thy  pity  !  what  vile  thing  is  this 
That  thou  didst  make  of  woman  ?  even  in  death,  185 
As  in  the  extremest  evil  of  all  our  lives. 
We  can  but  curse  or  pray,  but  prate  and  weep, 


Scene  III.]  ^^t^  ^tXlZtt  75 

And  all  our  wrath  is  wind  that  works  no  wreck, 
And  all  our  fire  as  water.    Noble  sirs, 
We  are  servants  of  your  servants,  and  obey        190 
The  beck  of  your  least  groom  ;  obsequiously, 
We  pray  you  but  report  of  us  so  much, 
Submit  us  to  you.    Yet  would  I  take  farewell. 
May  it  not  displease  you,  for  old  service'  sake, 
Of  one  my  servant  here  that  was,  and  now        195 
Hath  no  word  for  me ;  yet  I  blame  him  not. 
Who  am  past  all  help  of  man  ;   God  witness  me, 
I  would  not   chide  now,   Gilbert,  though   my 

tongue 
Had  strength  yet  left  for  chiding,  and  its  edge 
Were  yet  a  sword  to  smite  with,  or  my  wrath    200 
A  thing  that  babes  might  shrink  at ;  only  this 
Take  with  you  for  your  poor  queen's  true  last 

word. 
That  if  they  let  me  live  so  long  to  see 
The  fair  wife's  face  again  from  whose  soft  side. 
Now  labouring  with  your  child,  by  violent  hands  205 
You  are  reft  perforce  for  my  sake,  while  I  live 
I  will  have  charge  of  her  more  carefully 
Than  of  mine  own  life's  keeping,  which  indeed 
I  think  not  long  to  keep,  nor  care,  God  knows. 
How  soon  or  how  men  take  it.  Nay,  good  friend,  210 
Weep  not;   my  weeping  time  is  wellnigh  past, 
And  theirs  whose  eyes  have  too  much  wept  for 

me 


76  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  i. 

Should  last  no  longer.    Sirs,  I  give  you  thanks 
For  thus  much  grace  and  patience  shown  of  you, 
My  gentle  gaolers,  towards  a  queen  unqueened  215 
Who  shall  nor  get  nor  crave  again  of  man 
What    grace    may   rest    in    him    to    give    her. 

Come, 
Bring  me  to  bonds  again,  and  her  with  me 
That  hath  not  stood  so  nigh  me  all  these  years 
To  fall  ere  life  doth  from  my  side,  or  take  220 

Her  way  to  death  without  me  till  I  die. 


END    OF    THE    FIRST    ACT. 


ACT  II 
WALSINGHAM 


ACT   II. 

Scene   I.  —  Windsor  Castle, 
Queen  Elizabeth  and  Sir  Francis  Walsingham, 

Elizabeth.    What  will  ye  make  me  ?  Let  the 

council  know 
I  am  yet  their  loving  mistress,  but  they  lay 
Too  strange  a  burden  on  my  love  who  send 
As  to  their  servant  word  what  ways  to  take, 
What  sentence  of  my  subjects  given  subscribe       5 
And  in  mine  own  name  utter.     Bid  them  wait ; 
Have  I  not  patience  ?  and  was  never  quick 
To  teach  my  tongue  the  deadly  word  of  death. 
Lest  one  day  strange  tongues  blot  my  fame  with 

blood ; 
The  red  addition  of  my  sister's  name  10 

Shall  brand  not  mine. 

Walsingham.       God  grant  your  mercy  shown 
Mark  not  your  memory  like  a  martyr's  red 
With  pure  imperial  heart's-blood  of  your  own 
Shed  through  your  own  sweet-spirited  height  of 

heart 
That  held  your  hand  from  justice. 

Eliz.  I  would  rather  15 

Stand  in  God's  sight  so  signed  with  mine  own 

blood 


8o  £par^  g>cuart  [act  n. 

Than  with  a  sister's  —  innocent ;  or  indeed 
Though    guilty  —  being    a    sister's  —  might     I 

choose, 
As  being  a  queen  I  may  not  surely  —  no  — 
I  may  not  choose,  you  tell  me. 

IVal.  Nay,  no  man       20 

Hath  license  of  so  large  election  given 
As    once    to    choose,   being   servant    called   of 

God, 
If  he  will  serve  or  no,  or  save  the  name 
And  slack  the  service. 

EUz.  Yea,  but  in  his  Word 

I  find  no  word  that  whets  for  king-killing  25 

The  sword  kings  bear  for  justice;  yet  I  doubt. 
Being  drawn,  it  may  not  choose  but  strike  at 

root  — 
Being  drawn  to  cut  off  treason.    Walsingham, 
You  are  more  a  statesman  than  a  gospeller; 
Take  for  your   tongue's  text   now  no  text  of 

God's,  30 

But  what  the  devil  has  put  into  their  lips 
Who  should  have  slain  me ;  nay,  what  by  God's 

grace. 
Who  bared  their  purpose  to  us,  through  pain  or 

fear 
Hath  been  wrung  thence  of  secrets  writ  in  fire 
At  bottom  of  their  hearts.   Have  they  confessed  ?   35 
WaL  The  twain  trapped  first  in  London. 


Scene  I]  ^UT^  ^tmtt  8 1 

E/iz.  What,  the  priest  ? 

Their  twice-turned  Ballard,  ha  ? 

Wal.  Madam,  not  he. 

Eiiz,    God's  blood  !  ye  have  spared  not  him 
the  torment,  knaves  ? 
Of  all  I  would  not  spare  him. 

ff^a/.  Verily,  no; 

The  rack  hath  spun  his  life's  thread  out  so  fine  40 
There  is  but  left  for  death  to  slit  in  twain 
The  thickness  of  a  spider's. 

Eliz.  Ay,  still  dumb  ? 

fFa/,  Dumb  for  all  good  the  pains  can  get  of 
him ; 
Had  he  drunk  dry  the  chalice  of  his  craft 
Brewed  in  design  abhorred  of  even  his  friends      45 
With  poisonous  purpose  toward  your  majesty, 
He  had  kept  scarce  harder  silence. 

Eliz.  Poison  ?  ay  — 

That  should  be  still  the  churchman's  household 

sword 
Or  saintly  staff  to  bruise  crowned  heads  from  far 
And  break  them  with  his  precious  balms  that 

smell  50 

Rank  as  the  jaws  of  death,  or  festal  fume 
When  Rome  yet  reeked  with  Borgia  ;  but  the  rest 
Had  grace  enow  to  grant  me  for  goodwill 
Some  death  more  gracious  than  a  rat's?    God 
wot. 


82  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  h. 

I  am  bounden  to  them,  and  will  charge  for  this  55 
The  hangman  thank  them  heartily ;  they  shall 

not 
Lack  daylight  means  to  die  by.   God,  meseems, 
Will  have  me  not  die  darkling  like  a  dog, 
Who  hath  kept  my  lips  from  poison   and  my 

heart 
From  shot  of  English  knave  or  Spanish,  both       60 
Dubbed   of  the   devil   or   damned   his  doctors, 

whom 
My  riddance  from  all  ills  that  plague  man's  life 
Should  have  made  great  in  record ;  and  for  wage 
Your  Ballard  hath  not  better  hap  to  fee 
Than  Lopez  had  or  Parry.    Well,  he  lies  65 

As  dumb  in  bonds  as  those  dead  dogs  in  earth, 
You  say,  but  of  his  fellows  newly  ta'en 
There  are  that  keep  not  silence  :  what  say  these  ? 
Pour  in  mine  ears  the  poison  of  their  plot 
Whose  fangs  have  stung  the  silly  snakes  to  death.  70 
JVaL     The   first  a  soldier.  Savage,  in  these 

wars 
That  sometime  serving  sought  a  traitor's  luck 
Under  the  prince  Farnese,  then  of  late 
At  Rheims  was  tempted  of  our  traitors  there, 
Of  one  in  chief,  Gifford  the  seminarist,  75 

My  smock-faced  spy's  good  uncle,  to  take  off 
Or  the  earl  of  Leicester  or  your  gracious  self; 
And  since  his  passage  hither,  to  confirm 


scKNE I]  £par^  §)tuait  83 

His  hollow-hearted  hardihood,  hath  had 

Word  from  this  doctor  more  solicitous  yet  80 

Sent  by  my  knave  his  nephew,  who  of  late 

Was  in  the  seminary  of  so  deadly  seed 

Their  reader  in  philosophy,  that  their  head, 

Even  Cardinal  Allen,  holds  for  just  and  good 

The  purpose  laid  upon  his  hand ;  this  man  85 

Makes  yet  more  large  confession  than  of  this. 

Saying  from  our  Gilbert's  trusty  mouth  he  had 

Assurance  that  in  Italy  the  Pope 

Hath  levies  raised  against  us,  to  set  forth 

For  seeming  succour  toward  the  Parmesan,  9° 

But  in  their  actual  aim  bent  hither,  where 

With  French  and  Spaniards  in  one  front  of  war 

They  might  make  in  upon  us ;  but  from  France 

No  foot  shall  pass  for  inroad  on  our  peace 

Till  —  so  they  phrase  it  —  by  these  Catholics  here  95 

Your  majesty  be  taken,  or  — 

Eliz.  No  more  — 

But  only  taken  ?  springed  but  bird-like  ?    Ha  ! 
They  are  something  tender  of  our  poor  personal 

chance  — 
Temperately  tender :  yet  I  doubt  the  springe 
Had  haply  maimed  me  no  less  deep  than  life       100 
Sits  next  the  heart  most  mortal.    Or  —  so  be  it 
I  slip  the  springe  —  what  yet  may  shackle  France, 
Hang  weights  upon  their  purpose  who  should  else 
Be  great  of  heart  against  us  ?    They  take  time 


84  ^ar^  g^tuart  [act  ii. 

Till  I  be  taken  —  or  till  what  signal  else  105 

As  favourable  ? 

TVal.  Till  she  they  serve  be  brought 

Safe  out  of  Paulet's  keeping. 

Elix.  Ay  ?  they  know  him 

So  much  my  servant,  and  his  guard  so  good, 
That  sound  of  strange  feet  marching  on  our  soil 
Against  us  in  his  prisoner's  name  perchance        "o 
Might  from  the  walls  wherein  she  sits  his  guest 
Raise  a  funereal  echo  ?    Yet  I  think 
He  would  not  dare — what  think' st  thou  might  he 

dare 
Without  my  word  for  warrant  ?    If  I  knew 
This— 

TFal.     It  should  profit  not  your  grace  to  know  115 
What  may  not  be  conceivable  for  truth 
Without  some  stain  on  honour. 

Eliz.  Nay,  I  say  not 

That  I  would  have  him  take  upon  his  hand 
More  than  his  trust  may  warrant  :  yet  have  men, 
Good  men,  for  very  truth  of  their  good  hearts    "o 
Put  loyal  hand  to  work  as  perilous  —  well, 
God  wot  I  would  not  have  him  so  transgress  — 
If  such  be  called  transgressors. 

Wal.  Let  the  queen 

Rest  well  assured  he  shall  not.    So  far  forth 
Our  swordsman  Savage  witnesses  of  these  115 

That  moved  him  toward  your  murder  but  in  trust 


Scene  L]  ^^t^  ^tUaW  85 

Thereby  to  bring  invasion  over  sea  : 
Which  one  more  gently  natured  of  his  birth, 
Tichborne,  protests  with  very  show  of  truth 
That  he  would  give  no  ear  to,  knowing,  he  saith,i3o 
The  miseries  of  such  conquest :  nor,  it  seems. 
Heard  this  man  aught  of  murderous  purpose  bent 
Against  your  highness. 

£Iiz.  Naught  ?  why  then,  again, 

To  him  I  am  yet  more  bounden,  who  may  think, 
Being  found  but  half  my  traitor,  at  my  hands      135 
To  find  but  half  a  hangman. 

^al.  Nay,  the  man 

Herein  seems  all  but  half  his  own  man,  being 
Made  merely  out  of  stranger  hearts  and  brains 
Their  engine  of  conspiracy  ;  for  thus 
Forsooth  he  pleads,  that  Babington  his  friend      140 
First  showed  him  how  himself  was  wrought  upon 
By  one  man's  counsel  and  persuasion,  one 
Held  of  great  judgment,  Ballard,  on  whose  head 
All  these  lay  all  their  forfeit. 

Eiiz.  Yet  shall  each 

Pay  for  himself  red  coin  of  ransom  down  145 

In  costlier  drops  than  gold  is.    But  of  these 
Why  take   we  thought  ?     their   natural-subject 

blood 
Can  wash  not  out  their  sanguine-sealed  attempt, 
Nor  leave  us  marked  as  tyrant :  only  she 
That  is  the  head  and  heart  of  all  your  fears         15° 


86  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  n. 

Whose  hope  or  fear  is  England's,  quick  or  dead, 
Leaves  or  imperilled  or  impeached  of  blood 
Me  that  with  all  but  hazard  of  mine  own, 
God  knows,  would  yet  redeem  her.    I  will  write 
With   mine  own   hand  to  her  privily,  —  what 

else  ?  —  155 

Saying,  if  by  word  as  privy  from  her  hand 
She  will  confess  her  treasonous  practices. 
They  shall  be  wrapped  in  silence  up,  and  she 
By  judgment  live  unscathed. 

TVal.  Being  that  she  is. 

So  surely  will  she  deem  of  your  great  grace,       160 
And  see  it  but  as  a  snare  set  wide,  or  net 
Spread  in  the  bird's  sight  vainly. 

Eliz.  Why,  then,  well : 

She,  casting  off  my  grace,  from  all  men's  grace 
Cuts  off  herself,  and  even  aloud  avows 
By  silence  and  suspect  of  jealous  heart  165 

Her  manifest  foul  conscience  :  on  which  proof 
I  will  proclaim  her  to  the  parliament 
So  self-convicted.    Yet  I  would  not  have 
Her  name  and  life  by  mortal  evidence 
Touched  at  the  trial  of  them  that  now  shall  die  170 
Or  by  their  charge  attainted :   lest  myself 
Fall  in  more  peril  of  her  friends  than  she 
Stands  yet  in  shot  of  judgment. 

WaL  Be  assured. 

Madam,  the  process  of  their  treasons  judged 


s«NE  I.]  ^ar^  Stuart  87 

Shall  tax  not  her  before  her  trial-time  "75 

With  public  note  of  clear  complicity 

Even  for  that  danger's  sake  which  moves  you. 

Eli%.  Me 

So  much  it  moves  not  for  my  mere  life's  sake 
Which  I  would  never  buy  with  fear  of  death 
As  for  the  general  danger's  and  the  shame's        i8o 
Thence  cast  on  queenship  and  on  womanhood 
By  means  of  such  a  murderess.    But,  for  them, 
I  would  the  merited  manner  of  their  death 
Might  for  more  note  of  terror  be  referred 
To  me  and  to  my  council  :  these  at  least  185 

Shall  hang  for  warning  in  the  world's  wide  eye 
More  high   than   common    traitors,  with  more 

pains 
Being   ravished    forth  of  their  more  villainous 

lives 
Than  feed  the  general  throat  of  justice.    Her 
Shall   this   too  touch,  whom  none  that   serves 

henceforth  190 

But  shall  be  sure  of  hire  more  terrible 
Than  all  past  wage  of  treason. 

TVaL  Why,  so  far 

As  law  gives  leave  — 

Eliz,  What  prat'st  thou  me  of  law  ? 

God's  blood  !   is  law  for  man's  sake  made,  or 

man 
For  law's  sake  only,  to  be  held  in  bonds,  19s 


88  ^ar^  &tuart  [act  n. 

Led  lovingly  like  hound  in  huntsman's  leash 
Or  child  by  finger,  not  for  help  or  stay, 
But  hurt  and  hindrance  ?    Is  not  all  this  land 
And  all  its  hope  and  surety  given  to  time 
Of  sovereignty  and  freedom,  all  the  fame  ^°° 

And  all  the  fruit  of  manhood  hence  to  be, 
More  than  one  rag  or  relic  of  its  law 
Wherewith  all  these  lie  shackled  ?  as  too  sure 
Have  states  no  less  than  ours  been  done  to  death 
With  gentle  counsel  and  soft-handed  rule  ^°5 

For  fear  to  snap  one  thread  of  ordinance 
Though  thence  the  state  were  strangled. 

IVai,  Madam,  yet 

There   need   no   need  be   here   of   law's   least 

breach. 
That  of  all  else  is  worst  necessity  — 
Being  such  a  mortal  medicine  to  the  state  ^^° 

As  poison  drunk  to  expel  a  feverish  taint 
Which  air  or  sleep  might  purge  as  easily. 

Eliz.  Ay,  but  if  air  be  poison-struck  with 

plague 
Or  sleep  to  death  lie  palsied,  fools  were  they. 
Faint  hearts  and  faithless,  who  for  health's  fair 

sake  215 

Should  fear  to  cleanse  air,  pierce  and  probe  the 

trance, 
With  purging  fire  or  iron.    Have  your  way. 
God  send  good  end  of  all  this,  and  procure 


scKNEiL]  ^ar^  Stuart  89 

Some  mean  whereby  mine  enemies'  craft  and  his 
May  take  no  feet  but  theirs  in  their  own  toils,   220 
And  no  blood  shed  be  innocent  as  mine. 


Scene  II.  —  Chartley. 
Mary  Beaton  and  Sir  Amyas  Paulet. 

Paulet.  You  should  do  well  to  bid  her  less  be 

moved 
Who  needs  fear  less  of  evil.    Since  we  came 
Again  from  Tixall  this  wild  mood  of  hers 
Hath  vexed  her  more  than  all  men's  enmities 
Should  move  a  heart  more  constant.    Verily, 
I  thought  she  had  held  more  rule  upon  herself 
Than  to  call  out  on  beggars  at  the  gate 
When  she  rode  forth,  crying  she  had  nought  to 

give. 
Being  all  as  much  a  beggar  too  as  they, 
With  all  things  taken  from  her. 

Mary  Beaton.  Being  so  served. 

In   sooth  she  should  not  show  nor  shame  nor 

spleen : 
It  was  but  seventeen  days  ye  held  her  there 
Away  from  all  attendance,  as  in  bonds 
Kept  without  change  of  raiment,  and  to  find. 
Being  thence  haled  hither  again,  no  nobler  use. 
But  all  her  papers  plundered  —  then  her  keys 
By  force  of  violent  threat  wrung  from  the  hand 


90  ^ar^  §>tuait  [act  h. 

She  scarce  could  stir  to  help  herself  abed : 
These  were  no  matters  that  should  move  her. 

Paul.  None, 

If  she  be  clean  of  conscience,  whole  of  heart,      20 
Nor  else  than  pure  in  purpose,  but  maligned 
Of   men's  suspicions :     how   should  one  thus 

wronged 
But  hold  all  hard  chance  good  to  approve  her  case 
Blameless,  give  praise  for  all,  turn  all  to  thanks 
That  might  unload  her  of  so  sore  a  charge,  25 

Despoiled    not,   but    disburdened  ?     Her    great 

wrath 
Pleads  hard  against  her,  and  itself  spake  loud 
Alone,  ere  other  witness  might  unseal 
Wrath's  fierce  interpretation  :  which  ere  long 
Was  of  her  secretaries  expounded. 

Mary  Beaton.  Sir,  30 

As  you  are  honourable,  and  of  equal  heart 
Have  shown  such  grace  as  man  being  manful 

may 
To  such  a  piteous  prisoner  as  desires 
Nought  now  but  what  may  hurt  not  loyalty 
Though  you  comply  therewith  to  comfort  her,     35 
Let  her  not  think  your  spirit  so  far  incensed 
By  wild  words  of  her  mistress  cast  on  you 
In  heat  of  heart  and  bitter  fire  of  spleen 
That  you  should  now  close  ears  against  a  prayer 
Which  else  might  fairly  find  them  open. 


Scene  II.]  ^ar^  ^tUEIt  9' 

Paul.  Speak  4° 

More  short  and  plainly :  what  I  well  may  grant 
Shall  so  seem  easiest  granted. 

Mary  Beaton,  There  should  be 

No  cause  I  think  to  seal  your  lips  up,  though 
I  crave  of  them  but  so  much  breath  as  may 
Give  mine  ear  knowledge  of  the  witness  borne    45 
(If  aught  of  witness  were  against  her  borne) 
By  those  her  secretaries  you  spake  of. 

'  Paul,  This 

With  hard  expostulation  was  drawn  forth 
At  last  of  one  and  other,  that  they  twain 
Had  writ  by  record  from  their  lady's  mouth         50 
To  Babington  some  letter  which  implies 
Close  conscience  of  his  treason,  and  goodwill 
To  meet  his  service  with  complicity: 
But  one  thing  found  therein  of  deadliest  note 
The  Frenchman  swore  they  set  not  down,  nor  she  55 
Bade  write  one  word  of  favour  nor  assent 
Answering  this  murderous  motion  toward  our 

queen : 
Only,  saith  he,  she  held  herself  not  bound 
For  love's  sake  to  reveal  it,  and  thereby 
For  love  of  enemies  do  to  death  such  friends        ^° 
As  only  for  her  own  love's  sake  were  found 
Fit  men  for  murderous  treason  :  and  so  much 
Her  own  hand's  transcript  of  the  word  she  sent 
Should  once  produced  bear  witness  of  her. 


92  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  h. 

Mary  Beaton,  Ay  ? 

How  then  came  this  withholden  ? 

Paul.  If  she  speak  65 

But  truth,  why,  truth  should  sure  be  manifest. 
And  shall,  with  God's  good  will,  to  good  men's 

joy 

That  wish  not  evil :   as  at  Fotheringay 

When  she  shall  come  to  trial  must  be  tried 

If  it  be  truth  or  no  :   for  which  assay  7° 

You  shall  do  toward  her  well  and  faithfully 

To  bid  her  presently  prepare  her  soul 

That  it  may  there  make  answer. 

Mary  Beaton.  Presently  ? 

Paul.    Upon  the  arraignment  of  her  friends 
who  stand 
As  't  were  at  point  of  execution  now  75 

Ere  sentence  pass  upon  them  of  their  sin. 
Would  you  no  more  with  me  ? 

Mary  Beaton.  I  am  bounden  to  you 

For  thus  much  tidings  granted. 

Paul.  So  farewell.    Exit. 

Mary  Beaton.  So  fare  I  well  or  ill  as  one  who 
knows 
He  shall  not  fare  much  further  toward  his  end.   80 
Here  looms  on  me  the  landmark  of  my  life 
That  I  have  looked  for  now  some  score  of  years 
Even  with  long-sufFering  eagerness  of  heart 
And  a  most  hungry  patience.    I  did  know. 


Scene  II.]  ^Ht^  &tmVt  93 

Yea,  God,  thou  knowest  I  knew  this  all  that 

while,  85 

From    that    day    forth    when    even  these  eyes 

beheld 
Fall  the  most  faithful  head  in  all  the  world. 
Toward  her  most  loving  and  of  me  most  loved, 
By  doom  of  hers  that  was  so  loved  of  him 
He  could  not  love  me  nor  his  life  at  all  90 

Nor  his  own  soul  nor  aught  that  all  men  love. 
Nor  could  fear  death  nor  very  God,  or  care 
If  there  were  aught  more  merciful  in  heaven 
Than  love  on  earth  had  been  to  him.    Chaste- 
lard! 
I  have  not  had  the  name  upon  my  lips  95 

That  stands  for  sign  of  love  the  truest  in  man 
Since  first  love  made  him  sacrifice  of  men. 
This  long  sad  score  of  years  retributive 
Since  it  was  cast  out  of  her  heart  and  mind 
Who  made  it  mean  a  dead  thing ;  nor,  I  think,  100 
Will  she  remember  it  before  she  die 
More  than  in  France  the  memories  of  old  friends 
Are  like  to  have  yet  forgotten  ;  but  for  me. 
Haply  thou  knowest,  so  death  not  all  be  death. 
If  all  these  years  I  have  had  not  in  my  mind      105 
Through  all  these  chances  this  one  thought  in 

all. 
That  I  shall  never  leave  her  till  she  die. 
Nor  surely  now  shall  I  much  longer  serve 


94  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  h. 

Who  fain  would  lie  down  at  her  foot  and  sleep, 
Fain,  fain  have  done  with  waking.    Yet  my  soul  no 
Knows,  and  yet   God  knows,  I  would  set  not 

hand 
To  such  a  work  as  might  put  on  the  time 
And  make  death's   foot  more  forward  for  her 

sake : 
Yea,  were  it  to  deliver  mine  own  soul 
From  bondage  and  long-suffering  of  my  life,       115 
I  would  not  set  mine  hand  to  work  her  wrong. 
Tempted  I  was  —  but  hath  God  need  of  me 
To  work  his  judgment,  bring  his  time  about, 
Approve  his  justice  if  the  word  be  just 
That  whoso  doeth  shall  suffer  his  own  deed,       120 
Bear  his  own  blow,  to  weep  tears  back  for  tears. 
And  bleed  for  bloodshed  ?    God  should  spare  me 

this 
That  once  I  held  the  one  good  hope  on  earth, 
To  be  the  mean  and  engine  of  her  end 
Or  some  least  part  at  least  therein  :    I  prayed,    125 
God,    give    me    so    much    grace  —  who    now 

should  pray. 
Tempt  me  not,  God.  My  heart  swelled  once  to 

know 
I  bore  her  death  about  me ;  as  I  think 
Indeed  I  bear  it  :  but  what  need  hath  God 
That  I   should  clench  his  doom  with  craft  of 

mine?  130 


Scene  II.]  ^^J^  ^tXlWCt  95 

What  needs  the  wrath  of  hot  Elizabeth 

Be  blown  aflame  with  mere  past  writing  read, 

Which  hath  to  enkindle  it  higher  already  proof 

Of  present  practice  on  her  state  and  life  ? 

Shall  fear  of  death  or  love  of  England  fail  i35 

Or  memory  faint  or  foresight  fall  stark  blind, 

That  there  should  need  the  whet  and  spur  of 

shame 
To  turn  her  spirit  into  some  chafing  snake's 
And  make  its  fang  more  feared  for  mortal  ?   Yet 
I  am  glad,  and  I  repent  me  not,  to  know  140 

I  have  the  writing  in  my  bosom  sealed 
That  bears   such   matter  with  her   own   hand 

signed 
As  she  that  yet  repents  her  not  to  have  writ 
Repents  her  not  that  she  refrained  to  send 
And  fears  not  but  long  since  it  felt  the  fire  —    145 
Being  fire  itself  to  burn  her,  yet  unquenched. 
But  in  my  hand  here  covered  harmless  up 
Which  had  in  charge   to  burn  it.    What  per- 
chance 
Might  then  the  reading  of  it  have  wrought  for  us. 
If  all  this  fiery  poison  of  her  scoffs  150 

Making  the  foul  froth  of  a  serpent's  tongue   . 
More  venomous,  and    more  deadly  toward  her 

queen 
Even  Bess  of  Hardwick's  bitterest  babbling  tales. 
Had  touched  at  heart  the  Tudor  vein  indeed  ? 


96  £par^  g)tuart  [act  h. 

Enough  it  yet  were  surely,  though  that  vein        155 
Were  now  the  gentlest  that  such  hearts  may  hold 
And  all  doubt's  trembling  balance  that  way  bent, 
To  turn  as  with  one  mortal  grain  cast  in 
The  scale  of  grace  against  her  life  that  writ 
And  weigh  down  pity  deathward. 
Enter  Mary  Stuart. 

Mary  Stuart.  Have  we  found  160 

Such  kindness  of  our  keeper  as  may  give 
Some  ease  from  expectation  ?  or  must  hope 
Still  fret  for  ignorance  how  long  here  we  stay 
As  men  abiding  judgment  ? 

Mary  Beaton.  Now  not  long, 

He  tells  me,  need  we  think  to  tarry ;  since         165 
The  time  and  place  of  trial  are  set,  next  month 
To  hold  it  in  the  castle  of  Fotheringay. 

Mary   Stuart.  Why,  he  knows   well  I  were 
full  easily  moved 
To  set  forth  hence ;  there  must  I  find  more  scope 
To  commune  with  the  ambassador  of  France      170 
By  letter  thence  to  London  :  but,  God  help. 
Think  these  folk  truly,  doth  she  verily  think. 
What  never  man  durst  yet  nor  woman  dreamed. 
May  one  that  is  nor  man  nor  woman  think, 
To  bring  a  queen  born  subject  of  no  laws  175 

Here  in  subjection  of  an  alien  law 
By  foreign  force  of  judgment?    Were  she  wise, 
Might  she  not  have  me  privily  made  away  ? 


Scene  IL]  ^at^  ^tUatt  97 

And  being  nor  wise  nor  valiant  but  of  tongue, 
Could  she  find  yet  foolhardiness  of  heart  i8o 

Enough  to  attaint  the  rule  of  royal  rights 
With  murderous  madness  ?    I  will  think  not  this 
Till  it  be  proven  indeed. 

Mary  Beaton.  A  month  come  round, 

This  man  protests,  will  prove  it. 

Mary  Stuart,  Ay  !   protests  ? 

What  protestation  of  what  Protestant  185 

Can   unmake  law   that   was   of   God's   mouth 

made, 
Unwrite  the  writing  of  the  world,  unsay 
The  general  saying  of  ages  ?    If  I  go. 
Compelled    of   God's    hand  or  constrained    of 

man's. 
Yet  God  shall  bid  me  not  nor  man  enforce  190 

My  tongue  to  plead  before  them  for  my  life. 
I  had  rather  end  as  kings  before  me,  die 
Rather  by  shot  or  stroke  of  murderous  hands. 
Than  so  make  answer  once  in  face  of  man 
As  one  brought  forth  to  judgment.    Are  they 

mad,  195 

And  she  most  mad  for  envious  heart  of  all. 
To  make  so  mean  account  of  me  ?    Methought, 
When  late  we  came  back  hither  soiled  and  spent 
And  sick  with  travel,  I  had  seen  their  worst  of 

wrong 
Full-faced,  with  its  most  outrage  :  when  I  found  200 


98  ^ar^  g>tuart  [act  ii. 

My  servant  Curie's  young  new-delivered  wife 
Without   priest's    comfort    and    her    babe    un- 
blessed 
A  nameless  piteous  thing  born  ere  its  time, 
And  took  it  from  the  mother's  arms  abed 
And  bade  her  have  good  comfort,  since  myself  205 
Would  take  all  charge  against  her  husband  laid 
On  mine  own  head  to  answer  ;  deeming  not 
Man  ever  durst  bid  answer  for  myself 
On  charge  as  mortal :  and  mine  almoner  gone. 
Did  I  not  crave  of  Paulet  for  a  grace  210 

His  chaplain  might  baptize  me  this  poor  babe. 
And  was  denied  it,  and  with  mine  own  hands 
For  shame  and  charity  moved  to  christen  her 
There  with  scant  ritual  in  his  heretic  sight 
By  mine  own  woful  name,  whence  God,  I  pray,  21 5 
For  her  take  off  its  presage  ?    I  misdeemed. 
Who  deemed  all  these  and  yet  far  more  than 

these 
For  one  born  queen  indignities  enough. 
On  one  crowned  head  enough  of  buffets  :  more 
Hath  time's  hand  laid  upon  me  :  yet  I  keep        220 
Faith  in  one  word  I  spake  to  Paulet,  saying 
Two  things  were  mine  though  I  stood  spoiled 

of  all 
As  of  my  letters  and  my  privy  coin 
By  pickpurse  hands  of  office :  these  things  yet 
Might  none  take  thievish  hold  upon  to  strip        225 


s«NE  III.]  ^ar^  g)tuart  99 

His  prisoner  naked  of  her  natural  dower, 

The  blood  yet  royal  running  here  unspilled 

And  that  religion  which  I  think  to  keep 

Fast  as  this  royal  blood  until  I  die. 

So  where  at  last  and  howsoever  I  fare  230 

I  need  not  much  take  thought,  nor  thou  for  love 

Take  of  thy  mistress  pity  ;  yet  meseems 

They  dare  not  work  their  open  will  on  me : 

But  God's  it  is  that  shall  be  done,  and  I 

Find  end  of  all  in  quiet.    I  would  sleep  235 

On    this    strange    news    of   thine,    that    being 

awake 
I  may  the  freshlier  front  my  sense  thereof 
And  thought  of  life  or  death.   Come  in  with  me. 

Scene  III.  —  Tyburn, 
A  Crowd  of  Citizens, 

1st  Citizen.  Is  not  their  hour  yet  on  ?    Men 
say  the  queen 
Bade  spare  no  jot  of  torment  in  their  end 
That  law  might  lay  upon  them. 

2nd  Citizen.  Truth  it  is, 

To  spare  what  scourge  soe*er  man's  justice  may 
Twist  for  such  caitiff  traitors  were  to  grieve  5 

God's  with  mere  inobservance.    Hear  you  not 
How  yet  the  loud  lewd  braggarts  of  their  side 
Keep  heart  to  threaten  that  for  all  this  foil 
They  are  not  foiled  indeed,  but  yet  the  work 


100  £par^  g>tuart  [act  ii. 

Shall  prosper  with  deliverance  of  their  queen         lo 
And  death  for  her  of  ours,  though  they  should 

give 
Of  their  own  lives  for  one  an  hundredfold  ? 
jrd  Citizen.  These    are    bold    mouths ;    one 

that  shall  die  to-day, 
Being  this  last  week  arraigned  at  Westminster, 
Had  no  such  heart,  they  say,  to  his  defence,         15 
Who  was  the  main  head  of  their  treasons. 

1st  Cit.  Ay, 

And  yesterday,  if  truth  belie  not  him. 
Durst  with  his  doomed  hand  write  some  word 

of  prayer 
To  the  queen's  self,  her  very  grace,  to  crave 
Grace  of  her  for  his  gracelessness,  that  she  20 

Might  work  on  one  too  tainted  to  deserve 
A  miracle  of  compassion,  whence  her  fame 
For  pity  of  sins  too  great  for  pity  of  man 
Might    shine    more     glorious    than     his    crime 

showed  foul 
In  the  eye  of  such  a  mercy. 

2n6i  Cit.  Yet  men  said  15 

He  spake  at  his  arraignment  soberly 
With  clear    mild    looks  and    gracious  gesture, 

showing 
The  purport  of  his  treasons  in  such  wise 
That  it  seemed  pity  of  him  to  hear  them,  how 
All  their  beginnings  and  proceedings  had  30 


Scene  III.]  ^ai^  g^tUait  I O I 

First  head  and  fountain  only  for  their  spring 

From  ill  persuasions  of  that  poisonous  priest 

Who  stood  the  guiltiest  near,  by  this  man's  side 

Approved  a  valiant  villain.    Barnwell  next, 

Who  came  but  late  from  Ireland  here  to  court,  35 

Made  simply  protestation  of  design 

To  work  no  personal  ill  against  the  queen 

Nor  paint  rebellion's  face  as  murder's  red 

With  blood  imperial :  Tichborne  then  avowed 

He  knew  the  secret  of  their  aim,  and  kept,  40 

And  held  forsooth  himself  no  traitor  ;  yet 

In  the  end  would  even  plead  guilty,  Donne  with 

him. 
And  Salisbury,  who  not  less  professed  he  still 
Stood  out  against  the  killing  of  the  queen, 
And  would  not  hurt  her  for  a  kingdom  :   so,        45 
When  thus  all  these  had  pleaded,  one  by  one 
Was  each  man  bid  say  fairly,  for  his  part. 
Why  sentence  should  not  pass  :  and  Ballard  first, 
Who  had  been  so  sorely  racked  he  might  not 

stand. 
Spake,  but  as  seems  to  none  effect :  of  whom      50 
Said  Babington  again,  he  set  them  on. 
He  first,  and  most  of  all  him,  who  believed 
This  priest  had  power  to  assoil  his  soul  alive 
Of  all  else  mortal  treason  :   Ballard  then, 
As  in  sad  scorn — Tea^  Master  Babington^  55 

Quoth  he,  lay  all  upon  me^  but  I  wish 


102  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  ii. 

For  you  the  shedding  of  my  blood  might  be 

The  saving  of  your  life  :   howbeit^for  that^ 

Say  what  you  will ;  and  I  will  say  no  more. 

Nor  spake  the  swordsman  Savage  aught  again,     60 

Who,  first  arraigned,  had  first  avowed  his  cause 

Guilty :   nor  yet  spake  Tichborne  aught :   but 

Donne 
Spake,  and  the  same  said  Barnwell,  each  had 

sinned 
For  very  conscience  only  :  Salisbury  last 
Besought  the  queen  remission  of  his  guilt.  65 

Then  spake  Sir  Christopher  Hatton  for  the  rest 
That  sat  with  him  commissioners,  and  showed 
How  by  dark  doctrine  of  the  seminaries 
And  instance  most  of  Ballard  had  been  brought 
To  extreme  destruction  here  of  body  and  soul     70 
A  sort  of  brave  youths  otherwise  endowed 
With  goodly  gifts  of  birthright :  and  in  fine 
There  was  the  sentence  given  that  here  even 

now 
Shows  seven  for  dead  men  in  our  present  sight 
And  shall  bring  six  to-morrow  forth  to  die.  75 

Enter  Babingtoriy  Ballard  (^carried  in  a  chair^y  Tich- 
borne^ Savage^  Barnwell^  Tilneyy  and  Abington, 
guarded:  Sheriffs  Executioner y  Chaplain,  ^c. 

1st  Cit.   What,  will  they  speak  ? 

2nd  Cit.  Ay ;   each  hath  leave  in  turn 

To  show  what  mood  he  dies  in  toward  his  cause. 


Scene  III]  ^ar^  ^tUatt  IO3 

Ballard.  Sirs,  ye  that  stand  to  see  us  take  our 

doom, 
I  being  here  given  this  grace  to  speak  to  you 
Have  but  my  word  to  witness  for  my  soul,  go 

That  all  I  have  done  and  all  designed  to  do 
Was  only  for  advancement  of  true  faith 
To  furtherance  of  religion  :   for  myself 
Aught   would   I   never,  but    for   Christ's   dear 

church 
Was  mine  intent  all  wholly,  to  redeem  85 

Her  sore  affliction  in  this  age  and  land. 
As  now  may  not  be  yet :  which  knowing  for 

truth, 
I  am  readier  even  at  heart  to  die  than  live. 
And  dying  I  crave  of  all  men  pardon  whom 
My  doings  at  all  have  touched,  or  who  thereat     90 
Take  scandal ;  and  forgiveness  of  the  queen 
If  on  this  cause  I  have  offended  her. 

Savage.  The  like  say  I,  that  have  no  skill  in 

speech. 
But  heart  enough  with  faith  at  heart  to  die, 
Seeing  but  for  conscience  and  the  common  good,  95 
And  no  preferment  but  this  general  weal, 
I  did  attempt  this  business. 

Barnwell.  I  confess 

That  I,  whose  seed  was  of  that  hallowed  earth 
Whereof  each  pore  hath  sweated  blood  for  Christ, 
Had  note  of  these  men's  drifts,  which  I  deny     100 


104  ^ar^  Stuart  [acth. 

That  ever  I  consented  with  or  could 

In  conscience  hold  for  lawful.    That  I  came 

To  spy  for  them  occasions  in  the  court 

And  there  being  noted  of  her  majesty 

She  seeing  mine  eyes  peer  sharply  like  a  man's  105 

That  had  such  purpose  as  she  wist  before 

Prayed   God  that  all  were  well  —  if  this  were 

urged, 
I  might  make  answer,  it  was  not  unknown 
To  divers  of  the  council  that  I  there 
Had  matters  to  solicit  of  mine  own  no 

Which  thither  drew  me  then  :   yet  I  confess 
That  Babington,  espying  me  thence  returned, 
Asked  me  what  news  :   to  whom  again  I  told, 
Her  majesty  had  been  abroad  that  day. 
With  all  the  circumstance  I  saw  there.    Now     115 
If  I  have  done  her  majesty  offence 
I  crave  her  pardon  :   and  assuredly 
If  this  my  body's  sacrifice  might  yet 
Establish  her  in  true  religion,  here 
Most  willingly  should  this  be  offered  up.  120 

Tilney.   I  came  not  here  to  reason  of  my  faith. 
But  to  die  simply  like  a  Catholic,  praying 
Christ  give  our  queen  Elizabeth  long  life. 
And  warning  all  youth  born  take  heed  by  me. 

Abington,  I  likewise,  and  if  aught  I  have  erred 
in  aught  125 

I  crave  but  pardon  as  for  ignorant  sin, 


Scene  III.]  ^at^  &tmtt  105 

Holding  at  all  points  firm  the  Catholic  faith ; 
And  all  things  charged  against  me  I  confess, 
Save  that  I  ever  sought  her  highness'  death  : 
In  whose  poor  kingdom  yet  ere  long  I  fear  130 

Will  be  great  bloodshed. 

Sheriff'.  Seest  thou,  Abington, 

Here  all  these  people  present  of  thy  kind 
Whose  blood  shall  be  demanded  at  thy  hands 
If  dying  thou  hide  what  might  endanger  them  ? 
Speak  therefore,  why  or  by  what  mortal  mean    135 
Should  there  be  shed  such  blood  ? 

Jbing.  All  that  I  know 

You  have  on  record  :  take  but  this  for  sure, 
This  country  lives  for  its  iniquity 
Loathed  of  all  countries,  and  God  loves  it  not. 
Whereon  I  pray  you  trouble  me  no  more  140 

With  questions  of  this  world,  but  let  me  pray 
And  in  mine  own  wise  make   my  peace  with 
God. 

Bab.  For  me,  first  head  of  all  this  enterprise, 
I  needs  must  make  this  record  of  myself, 
I  have  not  conspired  for  profit,  but  in  trust         145 
Of  men's  persuasions  whence  I  stood  assured 
This  work  was  lawful  which  I  should  have  done 
And  meritorious  as  toward  God ;   for  which 
No  less  I  crave  forgiveness  of  my  queen 
And  that  my  brother  may  possess  my  lands         150 
In  heritage  else  forfeit  with  my  head. 


io6  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  ii. 

Tich,  Good  countrymen  and  my  dear  friends 
you  look 
For  something  to  be  said  of  me,  that  am 
But  an  ill  orator;  and  my  text  is  worse. 
Vain  were  it  to  make  full  discourse  of  all  155 

This  cause  that  brings  me  hither,  which  before 
Was  all  made  bare,  and  is  well  known  to  most 
That  have  their  eyes  upon  me  :  let  me  stand 
For  all  young  men,  and  most  for  those  born  high. 
Their  present  warning  here :  a  friend  I  had,       160 
Ay,  and  a  dear  friend,  one  of  whom  I  made 
No  small  account,  whose  friendship  for  pure  love 
To  this  hath  brought  me :  I  may  not  deny 
He  told  me  all  the  matter,  how  set  down, 
And  ready  to  be  wrought ;  which  always  I         165 
Held  impious,  and  denied  to  deal  therein  : 
But  only  for  my  friend's  regard  was  I 
Silent,  and  verified  a  saying  in  me. 
Who    so    consented    to    him.     Ere  this   thing 

chanced. 
How  brotherly  we  twain  lived  heart  in  heart      170 
Together,  in  what  flourishing  estate. 
This  town  well  knows  :  of  whom  went  all  re- 
port 
Through  her  loud  length  of  Fleetstreet  and  the 

Strand 
And  all  parts  else  that  sound  men's  fortunate 
names. 


Scene  III.]  ^Ht^  g^tUatt  IO7 

But  Babington  and  Tichborne  ?  that  therein       175 
There  was  no  haughtiest  threshold  found  of  force 
To  brave  our  entry  ;  thus  we  lived  our  life, 
And  wanted  nothing  we  might  wish  for :  then, 
For  me,  what  less  was  in  my  head,  God  knows, 
Than  high  state  matters  ?    Give  me  now  but 

leave  180 

Scarce  to  declare  the  miseries  I  sustained 
Since  I  took  knowledge  of  this  action,  whence 
To  his  estate  I  well  may  liken  mine. 
Who  could  forbear  not  one  forbidden  thing 
To  enjoy  all  else  afforded  of  the  world  :  185 

The  terror  of  my  conscience  hung  on  me ; 
Who,  taking  heed  what  perils  girt  me,  went 
To  Sir  John  Peters  hence  in  Essex,  there 
Appointing  that  my  horses  by  his  mean 
Should  meet   me  here    in   London,   whence  I 

thought  190 

To  flee  into  the  country :   but  being  here 
I  heard  how  all  was  now  bewrayed  abroad  : 
Whence  Adam-like  we  fled  into  the  woods 
And  there  were  taken.    My  dear  countrymen. 
Albeit  my  sorrows  well  may  be  your  joy,  195 

Yet  mix  your  smiles  with  tears  :   pity  my  case. 
Who,  born  out  of  an  house  whose  name  de- 
scends 
Even  from  two  hundred  years  ere  English  earth 
Felt  Norman  heel  upon  her,  were  it  yet 


io8  £par^  Stuart  [^ct  n. 

Till  this  mishap  of  mine  unspotted.    Sirs,  200 

I  have  a  wife,  and  one  sweet  child  :   my  wife. 
My  dear  wife  Agnes :   and  my  grief  is  there, 
And  for  six  sisters  too  left  on  my  hand  : 
All  my  poor  servants  were  dispersed,  I  know. 
Upon  their  master's  capture  :   all  which  things  205 
Most  heartily  I  sorrow  for :  and  though 
Nought  might  I  less  have  merited  at  her  hands, 
Yet  had  I  looked  for  pardon  of  my  fault 
From  the  queen's  absolute  grace  and  clemency  ; 
That  the  unexpired  remainder  of  my  years  210 

Might  in  some  sort  have  haply  recompensed 
This  former  guilt  of  mine  whereof  I  die  : 
But  seeing  such  fault  may  find  not  such  release 
Even  of  her  utter  mercies,  heartily 
I  crave  at  least  of  her  and  all  the  world  215 

Forgiveness,  and  to  God  commend  my  soul. 
And  to  men's  memory  this  my  penitence 
Till  our  death's  record  die  from  out  the  land. 
1st  Cit.    God  pardon  him  !   Stand  back :  what 
ail  these  knaves 
To  drive  and  thrust  upon  us  ?    Help  me,  sir  ;    220 
I  thank  you  :  hence  we  take  them  full  in  view : 
Hath  yet  the  hangman  there  his  knife  in  hand  ? 

END    OF    THE    SECOND    ACT. 


ACT   III 
BURGHLEY 


ACT  III. 

Scene  I.  The  presence-chamber  i7i  Fotheringay  Castle, 
At  the  upper  end,  a  chair  of  state  as  for  Queen 
Elizabeth ;  opposite y  in  the  centre  of  the  hally  a 
chair  for  Mary  Stuart.  The  Commissioners  seated 
on  either  side  along  the  wall:  to  the  right  the  Earls, 
with  Lord  Chancellor  Bromley  and  Lord  Treasurer 
Burghley  ;  to  the  left,  the  Barons,  with  the  Knights 
of  the  Privy  Council,  among  them  Walsingham  and 
Paulet ;  Popham,  Egerton,  and  Gawdy,  as  Coun- 
sel for  the  Crown.  Enter  Mary  Stuart,  supported  by 
Sir  Andrew  Melville,  and  takes  her  place. 

Mary  Stuart.  Here  are  full  many  men  of  coun- 
sel met; 
Not  one  for  me.  The  Chancellor  rises. 

Bromley.  Madam,  this  court  is  held 

To  make  strait  inquisition  as  by  law 
Of  what  with  grief  of  heart  our  queen  has  heard, 
A  plot  upon  her  life,  against  the  faith 
Here  in  her  kingdom    established :    on   which 

cause 
Our  charge  it  is  to  exact  your  answer  here 
And  put  to  proof  your  guilt  or  innocence. 
Mary  Stuart  (rising).    Sirs,  whom  by  strange 
constraint  I  stand  before. 
My  lords,  and  not  my  judges,  since  no  law 


112  ^arr  Stuart  [actih. 

Can  hold  to  mortal  judgment  answerable 
A  princess  free-born  of  all  courts  on  earth, 
I  rise  not  here  to  make  response  as  one 
Responsible  toward  any  for  my  life 
Or  of  mine  acts  accountable  to  man,  15 

Who  see  none  higher  save  only  God  in  heaven  : 
I  am  no  natural  subject  of  your  land 
That  I  should  here  plead  as  a  criminal  charged, 
Nor  in  such  wise  appear  I  now :   I  came 
On  your  queen's  faith  to  seek  in  England  help     20 
By  trothplight  pledged  me  :   where  by  promise- 
breach 
I  am  even  since  then  her  prisoner  held  in  ward  : 
Yet,  understanding  by  report  of  you 
Some  certain  things  I  know  not  of  to  be 
Against  me  brought  on  record,  by  my  will  *5 

I  stand  content  to  hear  and  answer  these. 

Brom.  Madam,  there  lives  none  born  on  earth 
so  high 
Who  for  this  land's  laws'  breach  within  this  land 
Shall  not  stand  answerable  before  those  laws. 
Burghley.  Let  there  be  record  of  the  prisoner's 
plea  30 

And  answer  given  such  protest  here  set  down. 
And  so  proceed  we  to  this  present  charge. 
Gawdy.   My  lords,  to  unfold  by  length  of  cir- 
cumstance 
The  model  of  this  whole  conspiracy 


Scene  L]  ^Ht^  ^tUaW  II3 

Should  lay  the  pattern  of  all  treasons  bare  35 

That  ever  brought  high  state  in  danger:  this 
No  man  there  lives  among  us  but  hath  heard. 
How  certain  men  of  our  queen's  household  folk 
Being  wrought  on  by  persuasion  of  their  priests 
Drew  late  a  bond  between  them,  binding  these    40 
With  others  of  their  faith  accomplices 
Directed  first  of  Anthony  Babington 
By  mean  of  six  for  execution  chosen 
To  slay  the  queen  their  mistress,  and  thereon 
Make  all  her  trustiest  men  of  trust  away ;  45 

As  my  lord  treasurer  Burghley  present  here. 
Lord  Hunsdon,  and  Sir  Francis  Walsingham, 
And  one  that  held  in  charge  awhile  agone 
This  lady  now  on  trial.  Sir  Francis  Knowles. 
That  she  was  hereto  privy,  to  her  power  50 

Approving  and  abetting  their  device, 
It  shall  not  stand  us  in  much  need  to  show 
Whose  proofs  are  manifoldly  manifest 
On  record  written  of  their  hands  and  hers. 
Mary  Stuart.    Of  all  this  I  know  nothing : 
Babington  55 

I  have  used  for  mine  intelligencer,  sent 
With  letters  charged  at  need,  but  never  yet 
Spake  with  him,  never  writ  him  word  of  mine 
As  privy  to  these  close  conspiracies 
Nor  word  of  his  had  from  him.  Never  came        60 
One  harmful  thought  upon  me  toward  your  queen, 


114  ^ar^§)tuait  [Acrm. 

Nor  knowledge  ever  that  of  other  hearts 

Was  harm  designed  against  her.   Proofs,  ye  say, 

Forsooth  ye  hold  to  impeach  me :   I  desire 

But  only  to  behold  and  handle  them  65 

If  they  in  sooth  of  sense  be  tangible 

More  than  mere  air  and  shadow. 

Burgh.  Let  the  clerk 

Produce  those  letters  writ  from  Babington. 

Mary  Stuart.    What  then  ?    it  may  be  such 
were  writ  of  him  : 
Be  it  proved  that  they  came  ever  in  my  hands.     70 
If  Babington  affirm  so  much,  I  say 
He,  or  who  else  will  say  it,  lies  openly. 

Gaw.  Here  is  the  man's  confession  writ,  and 
here 
Ballard's  the  Jesuit,  and  the  soldier's  here. 
Savage,  that  served  with  Parma. 

Mary  Stuart.  What  of  these  ?  75 

Traitors  they  were,  and  traitor-like  they  lied. 

Gaw.  And  here  the  last  her  letter  of  response 
Confirming  and  approving  in  each  point 
Their  purpose,  writ  direct  to  Babington. 

Mary  Stuart.  My  letter  ?  none  of  mine  it  is  : 
perchance  80 

It  may  be  in  my  cipher  charactered. 
But  never  came  from  or  my  tongue  or  hand : 
I  have  sought  mine  own  deliverance,  and  thereto 
Solicited  of  my  friends  their  natural  help : 


Scene  I]  ^31^  ^tUUtt  1 1  5 

Yet  certain  whom  I  list  not  name  there  were,      85 

Whose  offers  made  of  help  to  set  me  free 

Receiving,  yet  I  answered  not  a  word. 

Howbeit,  desiring  to  divert  the  storm 

Of  persecution  from  the  church,  for  this 

To  your  queen's  grace  I  have  made  most  earnest 

suit :  90 

But  for  mine  own  part  I  would  purchase  not 
This  kingdom  with  the  meanest  one  man's  death 
In  all  its  commonalty,  much  less  the  queen's. 
Many  there  be  have  dangerously  designed 
Things  that  I  knew  not :  yea,  but  very  late  95 

There  came  a  letter  to  my  hand  which  craved 
My  pardon  if  by  enterprise  of  some 
Were  undertaken  aught  unknown  of  me  : 
A  cipher  lightly  may  one  counterfeit, 
As  he  that  vaunted  him  of  late  in  France  100 

To  be  my  son's  base  brother :  and  I  fear 
Lest  this,  for  aught  mine  ignorance  of  it  knows, 
May  be  that  secretary's  fair  handiwork 
Who  sits  to  judge  me,  and  hath  practised  late, 
I  hear,  against  my  son's  life  and  mine  own.  105 

But  I  protest  I  have  not  so  much  as  thought 
Nor  dreamed  upon  destruction  of  the  queen  : 
I  had  rather  spend  most  gladly  mine  own  life 
Than    for    my   sake   the   Catholics   should    be 

thus 
Afflicted  only  in  very  hate  of  me  »io 


1 1 6  spar^  S)tuarc  [act  m. 

And  drawn  to  death  so  cruel  as  these  tears 
Gush  newly  forth  to  think  of. 

Burgh.  Here  no  man 

Who  hath  showed  himself  true  subject  to  the  state 
Was  ever  for  religion  done  to  death  : 
But  some  for  treason,  that  against  the  queen        "5 
Upheld  the  pope's  bull  and  authority. 

Mary  Stuart.     Yet  have  I  heard  it  otherwise 
affirmed 
And  read  in  books  set  forth  in  print  as  much. 

Burgh.    They  that  so  write  say  too  the  queen 
hath  here 
Made  forfeit  of  her  royal  dignity.  120 

Wahingham.    Here  I  call  God  to  record  on 
my  part 
That  personally  or  as  a  private  man 
I  have  done  nought  misbeseeming  honesty. 
Nor  as  I  bear  a  public  person's  place 
Done  aught  thereof  unworthy.    I  confess  125 

That,  being  right  careful  of  the  queen's  estate 
And  safety  of  this  realm,  I  have  curiously 
Searched  out  the  practices  against  it  :  nay. 
Herein  had  Ballard  offered  me  his  help, 
I  durst  not  have  denied  him  ;  yea,  I  would  130 

Have  recompensed  the  pains  he  had  taken.  Say 
I  have  practised  aught  with  him,  why  did  he  not, 
To  save  his  life,  reveal  it  ? 

Mary  Stuart.  Pray  you,  sir. 


Scene  I]  ^Ht^  §)tUart  II7 

Take  no  displeasure  at  me  :  truth  it  is 

Report  has  found  me  of  your  dealings,  blown     135 

From  lip  to  ear  abroad,  wherein  myself 

I  put  no  credit  :  and  could  but  desire 

Yourself  would  all  as  little  make  account 

Of  slanders  flung  on  me.    Spies,  sure,  are  men 

Of  doubtful  credit,  which  dissemble  things  14° 

Far  other  than  they  speak.     Do  not  believe 

That  I  gave  ever  or  could  give  consent 

Once  to  the  queen's  destruction  :  I  would  never, 

These  tears  are  bitter  witness,  never  would 

Make  shipwreck  of  my  soul  by  compassing         145 

Destruction  of  my  dearest  sister. 

Gawdy.  This 

Shall  soon  by  witness  be  disproved  :   as  here 
Even  by  this  letter  from  Charles  Paget's  hand 
Transcribed,  which  Curie  your  secretary  hath 

borne 
Plain  witness  you  received,  touching  a  league     150 
Betwixt  Mendoza  and  Ballard,  who  conferred 
Of  this  land's  foreordained  invasion,  thence 
To  give  you  freedom. 

Mary  Stuart.  What  of  this  ?  ye  shoot 

Wide  of  the  purpose :  this  approves  not  me 
Consenting  to  the  queen's  destruction. 

Gawdy.  That       155 

Stands  proven  enough  by  word  of  Babington 
Who  dying  avowed  it,  and  by  letters  passed 


ii8  £par^  Stuart  [Acrm. 

From  him  to  you,  whom  he  therein  acclaims 
As  his  most  dread  and  sovereign  lady  and  queen, 
And  by  the  way  makes  mention  passingly  i6o 

Of  a  plot  laid  by  transference  to  convey 
This  kingdom  to  the  Spaniard. 

Mary  Stuart,  I  confess 

There  came  a  priest  unto  me,  saying  if  I 
Would  not  herein  bear  part  I  with  my  son 
Alike  should  be  debarred  the  inheritance  :  165 

His  name  ye  shall  not  have  of  me  :   but  this 
Ye  know,  that  openly  the  Spaniard  lays 
Claim  to  your  kingdom,  and  to  none  will  give 
Place  ever  save  to  me. 

Burghley.  Still  stands  the  charge 

On  written  witness  of  your  secretaries  170 

Great  on  all  points  against  you. 

Mary  Stuart.  Wherefore  then 

Are  not  these  writers  with  these  writings  brought 
To  outface  me  front  to  front  ?    For  Gilbert  Curie, 
He  is  in  the  Frenchman's  hands  a  waxen  toy. 
Whom  the  other,  once  mine  uncle's  secretary,   175 
The  cardinal's  of  Lorraine,  at  his  mere  will 
Moulds,  turns,  and   tempers:   being   himself  a 

knave 
That  may  be  hired  or  scared  with  peril  or  coin 
To  swear  what  thing  men  bid  him.    Truth  again 
Is  this  that  I  deny  not,  seeing  myself  180 

Against  all  right  held  fast  in  English  ward, 


Scene  I.]  ^^V^  ^tmtt  1 1 9 

I  have  sought  all  help  where  I  might  hope  to  find : 

Which  thing  that  I  dispute  not,  let  this  be 

The  sign  that  I  disclaim  no  jot  of  truth 

In  all  objected  to  me.    For  the  rest,  185 

All  majesty  that  moves  in  all  the  world 

And  all  safe  station  of  all  princes  born 

Fall,  as  things  unrespected,  to  the  ground, 

If  on  the  testimony  of  secretaries 

And  on  their  writings  merely  these  depend,         190 

Being  to  their  likeness  thence  debased :   for  me, 

Nought  I  delivered  to  them  but  what  first 

Nature  to  me  delivered,  that  I  might 

Recover  yet  at  length  my  liberty. 

I  am  not  to  be  convicted  save  alone  195 

By  mine  own  word  or  writing.    If  these  men 

Have  written  toward  the  queen  my  sister's  hurt 

Aught,  I  wist  nought  of  all  such  writ  at  all : 

Let  them  be  put  to  punishment :   I  am  sure. 

Were  these  here  present,  they  by  testimony        200 

Would  bring  me  clear  of  blame. 

Gaw.  Yet  by  their  mean 

They  could  not  in  excuse  of  you  deny 
That  letters  of  communion  to  and  fro 
Have   passed   between  you   and   the   Spaniard, 

whence 
What  should  have  come  on   England  and  the 

queen  205 

These  both  well  know,  and  with  what  messages 


1 20  ^an^  Stuart  [act  m. 

Were  English  exiles  entertained  of  you 

By  mean  of  these  men,  of  your  secretaries, 

Confirmed  and  cherished  in  conspiracy 

For  this  her  kingdom's  overthrow:   in  France     210 

Paget  and  Morgan,  traitors  in  design 

Of  one  close  mind  with  you,  and  in  your  name 

Cheered  hence  for  constant  service. 

Mary  Stuart,  That  I  sought 

Comfort  and  furtherance  of  all  Catholic  states 
By  what  mean  found  soever  just  and  good,  215 

Your  mistress  from  myself  had  note  long  since 
And  open  warning :   uncompelled  I  made 
Avowal  of  such  my  righteous  purpose,  nor 
In  aught  may  disavow  it.    Of  these  late  plots 
No  proof  is  here  to  attaint  mine  innocence,        220 
Who  dare  all  proof  against  me  :   Babington 
I  know  not  of,  nor  Ballard,  nor  their  works. 
But  kings  my  kinsmen,  powers  that  serve  the 

church. 
These  I  confess  my  comforters,  in  hope 
Held  fast  of  their  alliance.    Yet  again  225 

I  challenge  in  the  witness  of  my  words 
The  notes  writ  of  these  letters  here  alleged 
In  mine  own  hand  :   if  these  ye  bring  not  for 
Judge  all  good  men  if  I  be  not  condemned 
In  all  your  hearts  already,  who  perchance  230 

For  all  this  pageant  held  of  lawless  law 
Have  bound  yourselves  by  pledge  to  speak  me 

dead  : 


Scene  I.]  ^Ht^  ^tUatt  121 

But  I  would  have  you  look  into  your  souls, 
Remembering  how  the  theatre  of  the  world 
Is  wider,  in  whose  eye  ye  are  judged  that  judge, 235 
Than  this  one  realm  of  England. 

Burgh.  Toward  that  realm 

Suffice  it  here  that,  madam,  you  stand  charged 
With  deadly  purpose :  being  of  proven  intent 
To  have  your  son  conveyed  to  Spain,  and  give 
The  title  you  pretend  upon  our  crown  140 

Up  with  his  wardship  to  King  Philip. 

Mary  Stuart.  Nay, 

I  have  no  kingdom  left  to  assign,  nor  crown 
Whereof  to  make  conveyance:  yet  is  this 
But  lawful,  that  of  all  things  which  are  mine 
I  may  dispose  at  pleasure,  and  to  none  245 

Stand  on  such  count  accountable. 

Burgh.  So  be  it 

So  far  as  may  be  :  but  your  ciphers  sent 
By  Curie's  plain  testimony  to  Babington, 
To  the  lord  Lodovic,  and  to  Fernihurst, 
Once  provost  on  your  part  in  Edinburgh  150 

By  mean  of  Grange  your  friend  his  father-in-law, 
Speak  not  but  as  with  tongue  imperial,  nor 
Of  import  less  than  kingdoms. 

Mary  Stuart.  Surely,  sir, 

Such  have  I  writ,  and  many ;  nor  therein 
Beyond  my  birth  have  trespassed,  to  commend  255 
That  lord  you  speak  of,  and  another,  both 


1 2  2  £par^  Stuart  [act  m. 

My  friends  in  faith,  to  a  cardinal's  dignity. 

And  that,  I  trust,  without  offence :  except 

It  be  not  held  as  lawful  on  my  part 

To  commune  with  the  chiefest  of  my  creed        260 

By  written  word  on  matters  of  mine  own 

As  for  your  queen  with  churchfolk  of  her  kind. 

Burgh.  Well  were  it,  madam,  that  with  some 
of  yours 
You  had  held  less  close  communion :   since  by 

proof 
Reiterated  from  those  your  secretaries  265 

It  seems  you  know  right  well  that  Morgan,  who 
Sent  Parry  privily  to  despatch  the  queen. 
And  have  assigned  him  annual  pension. 

Mary  Stuart.  This 

I  know  not,  whether  or  no  your  charge  be  truth. 
But  I  do  know  this  Morgan  hath  lost  all  270 

For  my  sake,  and  in  honour  sure  I  am 
That  rather  to  relieve  him  I  stand  bound 
Than  to  revenge  an  injury  done  your  queen 
By  one  that  lives  my  friend,  and  hath  deserved 
Well  at  mine  hands  :  yet,  being  not  bound  to  this,  ^75 
I  did  affright  the  man  from  such  attempts 
Of  crimes  against  her,  who  contrariwise 
Hath  out  of  England  openly  assigned 
Pensions  to  Gray  my  traitor,  and  the  Scots 
Mine  adversaries,  as  also  to  my  son,  *8o 

To  hire  him  to  forsake  me. 

Burgh.  Nay,  but  seeing 


Scene  I]  ^Ut^  ^tUntt  1 23 

By  negligence  of  them  that  steered  the  state 

The  revenues  of  Scotland  sore  impaired 

Somewhat  in  bounty  did  her  grace  bestow 

Upon  your  son  the  king,  her  kinsman  :   whom  285 

She  would  not,  being  to  her  so  near  of  blood, 

Forget  from  charity.    No  such  help  it  was 

Nor  no  such  honest  service  that  your  friends 

Designed  you,  who  by  letters  hither  writ 

To  Paget  and  Mendoza  sent  as  here  190 

Large  proffers  of  strange  aid  from  oversea 

To  right  you  by  her  ruin. 

Mary  Stuart.  Here  was  nought 

Aimed  for  your  queen's  destruction  :  nor  is  this 
Against  me  to  be  charged,  that  foreign  friends 
Should  labour  for  my  liberty.    Thus  much  295 

At  sundry  times  I  have  signified  aloud 
By  open  message  to  her,  that  I  would  still 
Seek  mine  own  freedom.    Who  shall  bar  me 

this  ? 
Who  tax  me  with  unreason,  that  I  sent 
Unjust  conditions  on  my  part  to  be  300 

To  her  propounded,  which  now  many  times 
Have  alway  found  rejection  ?  yea,  when  even 
For  hostages  I  proffered  in  my  stead 
To  be  delivered  up  with  mine  own  son 
The  duke  of  Guise's,  both  to  stand  in  pledge     305 
That  nor  your  queen  nor  kingdom  should  through 

me 


124  ^ar^  Stuart  [Acrm. 

Take  aught  of  damage  ;  so  that  hence  by  proof 

I  see  myself  utterly  from  all  hope 

Already  barred  of  freedom.    But  I  now 

Am  dealt  with  most  unworthily,  whose  fame      310 

And  honourable  repute  are  called  in  doubt 

Before  such  foreign  men  of  law  as  may 

By  miserable  conclusions  of  their  craft 

Draw  every  thin  and  shallow  circumstance 

Out  into  compass  of  a  consequence  :  3^5 

Whereas  the  anointed  heads  and  consecrate 

Of  princes  are  not  subject  to  such  laws 

As  private  men  are.    Next,  whereas  ye  are  given 

Authority  but  to  look  such  matters  through 

As  tend  to  the  hurt  of  your  queen's  person,  yet  320 

Here  is  the  cause  so  handled,  and  so  far 

Here  are  my  letters  wrested,  that  the  faith 

Which  I  profess,  the  immunity  and  state 

Of  foreign  princes,  and  their  private  right 

Of  mutual  speech  by  word  reciprocate  3*5 

From  royal  hand  to  royal,  all  in  one 

Are  called  in  question,  and  myself  by  force 

Brought  down  beneath  my  kingly  dignity 

And  made  to  appear  before  a  judgment-seat 

As  one  held  guilty ;   to  none  end  but  this,  33° 

All  to  none  other  purpose  but  that  I 

Might  from  all  natural  favour  of  the  queen 

Be  quite  excluded,  and  my  right  cut  ofF 

From  claim  hereditary  :   whereas  I  stand 


Scene  I.)  ^at^  ^tmXt  1 25 

Here  of  mine  own  goodwill  to  clear  myself        335 

Of  all  objected  to  me,  lest  I  seem 

To  have  aught  neglected  in  the  full  defence 

Of  mine  own  innocency  and  honour.    This 

Would  I  bring  likewise  in  your  minds,  how  once 

This  queen  herself  of  yours,  Elizabeth,  34° 

Was  drawn  in  question  of  conspiracy 

That  Wyatt  raised  against  her  sister,  yet 

Ye  know  she  was  most  innocent.    For  me, 

With  very  heart's  religion  I  affirm. 

Though  I  desire  the  Catholics  here  might  stand  345 

Assured  of  safety,  this  I  would  not  yet 

Buy  with  the  blood  and  death  of  any  one. 

And  on  mine  own  part  rather  would  I  play 

Esther  than  Judith ;  for  the  people's  sake 

To  God  make  intercession,  than  deprive  35° 

The  meanest  of  the  people  born  of  life. 

Mine  enemies  have  made  broad  report  aloud 

That  I  was  irreligious  :  yet  the  time 

Has  been  I  would  have  learnt  the  faith  ye  hold, 

But  none  would  suffer  me,  for  all  I  sought,        355 

To  find  such  teaching  at  your  teachers'  hands ; 

As  though  they  cared  not  what  my  soul  became. 

And  now  at  last,  when  all  ye  can  ye  have  done 

Against  me,  and  have  barred  me  from  my  right. 

Ye  may  chance  fail  yet  of  your  cause  and  hope.  360 

To  God  and  to  the  princes  of  my  kin 

I  make  again  appeal,  from  you  again 


126  spar^  Stuart  [acthi. 

Record  my  protestation,  and  reject 

All  judgment  of  your  court :   I  had  rather  die 

Thus  undishonoured,  even  a  thousand  deaths,    365 

Than  so  bring  down  the  height  of  majesty ; 

Yea,  and  thereby  confess  myself  as  bound 

By  all  the  laws  of  England,  even  in  faith 

Of  things  religious,  who  could   never  learn 

What  manner  of  laws  these  were  :  I  am  destitute  370 

Of  counsellors,  and  who  shall  be  my  peers 

To  judge  my  cause  through  and  give  doom  thereon 

I  am  ignorant  wholly,  being  an  absolute  queen, 

And  will  do  nought  which  may  impair  that  state 

In  me  nor  other  princes,  nor  my  son  ;  375 

Since  yet  my  mind  is  not  dejected,  nor 

Will  I  sink  under  my  calamity. 

My  notes  are  taken  from  me,  and  no  man 

Dares  but  step  forth  to  be  my  advocate. 

I  am  clear  from  all  crime  done  against  the  queen,  380 

I  have  stirred  not  up  one  man  against  her :  yet. 

Albeit  of  many  dangers  overpast 

I  have  thoroughly  forewarned  her,  still  I  found 

No  credit,  but  have  always  been  contemned. 

Though  nearest  to  her  in  blood  allied.   When  late  385 

Ye  made  association,  and  thereon 

An  act  against  their  lives  on  whose  behalf. 

Though  innocent  even  as  ignorance  of  it,  aught 

Might  be  contrived  to  endangering  of  the  queen 

From  foreign  force  abroad,  or  privy  plots  39° 


Scene!.]  ^Ht^  ©tUait  1 27 

At  home  of  close  rebellion,  I  foresaw 

That,  whatsoever  of  peril  so  might  rise 

Or  more  than  all  this  for  religion's  sake, 

My  many  mortal  enemies  in  her  court 

Should  lay  upon  me  all  the  charge,  and  I  395 

Bear  the  whole  blame  of  all  men.    Certainly, 

I  well  might  take  it  hardly,  nor  without 

High  cause,  that  such  confederacy  was  made 

With  mine  own  son,  and  I  not  knowing  :  but  this 

I  speak  not  of,  being  not  so  grieved  thereat         400 

As  that  mine  own  dear  sister,  that  the  queen, 

Is  misinformed  of  me,  and  I,  now  kept 

These  many  years  in  so  strait  prison,  and  grown 

Lame  of  my  limbs,  have  lien  neglected,  nor 

For  all  most  reasonable  conditions  made  405 

Or  proffered  to  redeem  my  liberty 

Found  audience  or  acceptance  :  and  at  last 

Here  am  I  set  with  none  to  plead  for  me. 

But  this  I  pray,  that  on  this  matter  of  mine 

Another  meeting  there  be  kept,  and  I  410 

Be  granted  on  my  part  an  advocate 

To  hold  my  cause  up ;  or  that  seeing  ye  know 

I  am  a  princess,  I  may  be  believed 

By  mine  own  word,  being  princely  :  for  should  I 

Stand  to  your  judgment,  who  most  plainly  I  see4i5 

Are  armed  against  me  strong  in  prejudice. 

It  were  mine  extreme  folly  :  more  than  this. 

That  ever  I  came  to  England  in  such  trust 


1 2  8  £par^  g^tuart  [act  m. 

As  of  the  plighted  friendship  of  your  queen 
And  comfort  of  her  promise.    Look,  my  lords,  420 
Here  on  this  ring  :  her  pledge  of  love  was  this 
And  surety  sent  me  when  I  lay  in  bonds 
Of  mine  own  rebels  once  :  regard  it  well : 
In  trust  of  this  I  came  amongst  you  :  none 
But  sees  what  faith  I  have  found  to  keep  this 
trust.  4^5 

Burgh.  Whereas  I  bear  a  double  person,  being 
Commissioner   first,     then    counsellor    in    this 

cause. 
From  me  as  from  the  queen's  commissioner  here 
Receive  a  few  words  first.    Your  protest  made 
Is  now  on  record,  and  a  transcript  of  it  43° 

Shall  be  delivered  you.    To  us  is  given 
Under  the  queen's  hand  our  authority,  whence 
Is  no  appeal,  this  grant  being  ratified 
With  the  great  seal  of  England ;  nor  are  we 
With  prejudice  come  hither,  but  to  judge  435 

By  the  straight  rule  of  justice.    On  their  part. 
These  the  queen's  learned  counsel  here  in  place 
Do  level  at  nothing  else  but  that  the  truth 
May  come   to   light,  how   far   you   have   made 

offence 
Against  the  person  of  the  queen.     To  us  44° 

Full  power  is  given  to  hear  and  diligently 
Examine  all  the  matter,  though  yourself 
Were  absent :  yet  for  this  did  we  desire 


Scene  I.l  ^Ht^  ^CUatt  1 29 

To  have  your  presence  here,  lest  we  might  seem 
To  have  derogated  from  your  honour  :   nor        445 
Designed  to  object  against  you  anything 
But  what  you  knew  of,  or  took  part  therein, 
Against   the  queen's   life  bent.    For  this  were 

these 
Your  letters  brought  in  question,  but  to  unfold 
Your  aim  against  her  person,  and  therewith        45° 
All  matters  to  it  belonging ;   which  perforce 
Are  so  with  other  matters  interlaced 
As  none   may  sever  them.    Hence  was   there 

need 
Set  all  these  forth,  not  parcels  here  and  there, 
Whose  circumstances  do  the  assurance  give        455 
Upon  what  points  you  dealt  with  Babington. 
Mary  Stuart.  The  circumstances  haply  may 

find  proof. 
But  the  fact  never.    Mine  integrity 
Nor  on  the,  memory  nor  the  credit  hangs 
Of  these  my  secretaries,  albeit  I  know  460 

They  are  men  of  honest  hearts  :  yet  if  they  have 
Confessed  in  fear  of  torture  anything 
Or  hope  of  guerdon  and  impunity, 
It  may  not  be  admitted,  for  just  cause, 
Which  I  will  otherwhere  allege.    Men's  minds  465 
Are  with  affections  diversly  distraught 
And  borne  about  of  passion  :   nor  would  these 
Have  ever  avowed  such  things  against  me,  save 


130  £pai^  g>tuart  [actih. 

For  their  own  hope  and  profit.    Letters  may 
Toward  other  hands  be  outwardly  addressed       47© 
Than  they  were  writ  for :  yea,  and  many  times 
Have  many  things  been  privily  slipped  in  mine 
Which  from  my  tongue  came  never.    Were  I  not 
Reft  of  my  papers,  and  my  secretary 
Kept  from  me,  better  might  I  then  confute        475 
These  things  cast  up  against  me. 

Burgh.  But  there  shall 

Be  nothing  brought  against  you  save  what  last 
Stands  charged,  even  since  the  nineteenth  day 

of  June : 
Nor  would  your  papers  here  avail  you,  seeing 
Your  secretaries,  and  Babington  himself,  480 

Being  of  the  rack  unquestioned,  have  affirmed 
You  sent  those  letters  to   him ;  which  though 

yourself 
Deny,  yet  whether  more  belief  should  here 
On  affirmation  or  negation  hang 
Let  the   commissioners  judge.    But,  to    come 

back,  485 

This  next  I  tell  you  as  a  counsellor. 
Time  after  time  you  have  put  forth  many  things 
Propounded  for  your  freedom ;  that  all  these 
Have  fallen  all  profitless,  't  is  long  of  you. 
And  of  the  Scots  ;  in  no  wise  of  the  queen.        490 
For  first  the  lords  of  Scotland,  being  required, 
Flatly  refused,  to  render  up  the  king 


Scene  I]  ^^t^  ^tUntt  I3I 

In  hostage :  and  when  treaty  last  was  held 
Upon  your  freedom,  then  was  Parry  sent 
By  your  dependant  Morgan  privily  495 

To  make  the  queen  away  by  murder. 

Mary  Stuart.  Ah ! 

You  are  my  adversary. 

Burgh.  Yea,  surely  I  am 

To  the  queen's  adversaries  an  adversary. 
But  now  hereof  enough  :  let  us  proceed 
Henceforth  to  proofs. 

Mary  Stuart.  I  will  not  hear  them. 

Burgh,  Yet  500 

Hear  them  will  we. 

Mary  Stuart.  And  in  another  place 

I  too  will  hear  them,  and  defend  myself. 

Gaw.  First  let  your  letters  to  Charles  Paget 
speak, 
Wherein  you  show  him  there  is  none  other  way 
For  Spain  to  bring  the  Netherlands  again  505 

To  the  old  obedience,  but  by  setting  up 
A  prince  in  England  that  might  help  his  cause  : 
Then  to  Lord  Paget,  to  bring  hastilier 
His  forces  up  for  help  to  invade  this  land : 
And  Cardinal  Allen's  letter,  hailing  you  510 

His  most  dread  sovereign  lady,  and  signifying 
The  matter  to  the  Prince  of  Parma's  care 
To  be  commended. 

Mary  Stuart.  I  am  so  sore  beset 


132  ^ar^§)tuart  [acthi. 

I  know  not  how  by  point  and  circumstance 

To  meet  your  manifold  impeachments  :   this        5^5 

I  see  through  all  this  charge  for  evil  truth, 

That  Babington  and  my  two  secretaries 

Have  even  to  excuse  themselves  accused  me : 

yet, 

As  touching  that  conspiracy,  this  I  say, 

Of  those  six  men  for  execution  chosen  520 

I  never  heard  :  and  all  the  rest  is  nought 

To  this  pretended  purpose  of  your  charge. 

For  Cardinal  Allen,  whatsoe'er  he  have  writ, 

I  hold  him  for  a  reverend  prelate,  so 

To  be  esteemed,  no  more  :  none  save  the  Pope  525 

Will  I  acknowledge  for  the  church's  head 

And  sovereign  thence  on  thought  or  spirit  of 

mine : 
But  in  what  rank  and  place  I  stand  esteemed 
Of  him  and  foreign  princes  through  the  world 
I  know  not :   neither  can  I  hinder  them  530 

By  letters  writ  of  their  own  hearts  and  hands 
To  hail  me  queen  of  England.    As  for  those 
Whose  duty  and  plain  allegiance  sworn  to  me 
Stands  flawed  in  all  men's  sight,  my  secretaries. 
These  merit  no  belief.    They  which  have  once  535 
Forsworn  themselves,  albeit  they  swear  again 
With  oaths  and  protestations  ne'er  so  great. 
Are  not  to  be  believed.    Nor  may  these  men 
By  what  sworn  oath  soever  hold  them  bound 


Scene  I.]  ^^ar^  ^tmtt  1 33 

In  court  of  conscience,  seeing  they  have  sworn 

to  me  540 

Their  secrecy  and  fidelity  before, 
And  are  no  subjects  of  this  country.    Nau 
Hath  many  times  writ  other  than  I  bade. 
And  Curie  sets  down  whatever  Nau  bids  him 

write ; 
But  for  my  part  I  am  ready  in  all  to  bear  545 

The  burden  of  their  fault,  save  what  may  lay 
A  blot  upon  mine  honour.    Haply  too 
These  things  did  they  confess  to  save  themselves  ; 
Supposing  their  avowal  could  hurt  not  me. 
Who,  being  a  queen,  they  thought,  good  ignorant 

men,  SS° 

More  favourably  must  needs  be  dealt  withal. 
For  Ballard,  I  ne'er  heard  of  any  such, 
But  of  one  Hallard  once  that  proffered  me 
Such  help  as  I  would  none  of,  knowing  this  man 
Had  vowed  his  service  too  to  Walsingham.         555 
Gaw.  Next,  from  your  letters  to  Mendoza, 

writ 
By  Curie,  as  freely  his  confession  shows. 
In  privy  cipher,  take  these  few  brief  notes 
For  perfect  witness  of  your  full  design. 
You  find  yourself,  the  Spaniard  hears  thereby,    560 
Sore  troubled  what  best  course  to  take  anew 
For  your  affairs  this  side  the  sea,  whereon 
Charles  Paget  hath  a  charge  to  impart  from  you 


1 34  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  m. 

Some  certain  overtures  to  Spain  and  him 

In  your  behalf,  whom  you  desire  with  prayer      565 

Show  freely  what  he  thinks  may  be  obtained 

Thus  from  the  king  his  master.    One  point  more 

Have  you  reserved  thereon  depending,  which 

On  your  behalf  you  charge  him  send  the  king 

Some  secret  word  concerning,  no  man  else,        57° 

If  this  be  possible,  being  privy  to  it : 

Even  this,  that  seeing  your  son's  great  obstinacy 

In  heresy,  and  foreseeing  too  sure  thereon 

Most  imminent  danger  and  harm  thence  like  to 

ensue 
To  the  Catholic  church,  he  coming  to  bear  rule 575 
Within  this  kingdom,  you  are  resolved  at  heart 
In  case  your  son  be  not  reduced  again 
To  the  Catholic  faith  before  your  death,  whereof 
Plainly  you  say  small  hope  is  yours  so  long 
As  he  shall  bide  in  Scotland,  to  give  up  580 

To  that  said  king,  and  grant  in  absolute  right, 
Your  claim  upon  succession  to  this  crown, 
By  your  last   will  made ;  praying  him  on   this 

cause 
From  that  time  forth  wholly  to  take  yourself 
Into  his  keeping,  and  therewith  the  state  585 

And  charge  of  all  this  country  :   which,  you  say. 
You  cannot  for  discharge  of  conscience  think 
That  you  could  put  into  a  prince's  hands 
More  zealous  for  your  faith,  and  abler  found 


Scene!.]  ^^X^  ^tmVt  1 35 

To  build  it  strong  upon  this  side  again,  590 

Even  as  through  all  parts  else  of  Christendom. 
But  this  let  silence  keep  in  secret,  lest 
Being  known  it  be  your  dowry's  loss  in  France, 
And  open  breach  in  Scotland  with  your  son. 
And  in  this  realm  of  England  utterly  595 

Your  ruin  and  destruction.    On  your  part 
Next  is  he  bidden  thank  his  lord  the  king 
For  liberal  grace  and  sovereign  favour  shown 
Lord  Paget  and  his  brother,  which  you  pray  him 
Most  earnestly  to  increase,  and  gratify  600 

Poor  Morgan  with  some  pension  for  your  sake 
Who  hath  not  for  your  sake  only  endured  so  much 
But  for  the  common  cause.    Likewise,  and  last, 
Is  one  he  knows  commended  to  his  charge 
With  some  more  full  supply  to  be  sustained       605 
Than  the  entertainment  that  yourself  allot 
According  to  the  little  means  you  have. 

Burgh.   Hereon  stands  proof  apparent  of  that 
charge 
Which  you  but  now  put  by,  that  you  design 
To  give  your  right  supposed  upon  this  realm      610 
Into  the  Spaniard's  hold ;  and  on  that  cause 
Lie  now  at  Rome  Allen  and  Parsons,  men 
Your  servants  and  our  traitors. 

Mary  Stuart,  No  such  proof 

Lives  but  by  witness  of  revolted  men. 
My  traitors  and  your  helpers  ;  who  to  me  615 


136  ^ar^  Stuart  [Acxin. 

Have  broken  their  allegiance  bound  by  oath. 
When  being  a  prisoner  clothed  about  with  cares 
I  languished  out  of  hope  of  liberty, 
Nor  yet  saw  hope  to  effect  of  those  things  aught 
Which  many  and  many  looked  for  at  my  hands,  620 
Declining  now  through  age  and  sickness,  this 
To  some  seemed  good,  even  for  religion's  sake, 
That  the  succession  here  of  the  English  crown 
Should  or  be  stablished  in  the  Spanish  king 
Or  in  some  English  Catholic.    And  a  book         625 
Was  sent  to  me  to  avow  the  Spaniard's  claim  ; 
Which  being  of  me  allowed  not,  some  there  were 
In  whose  displeasure  thence  I  fell ;  but  now 
Seeing  all  my  hope  in  England  desperate  grown, 
I  am  fully  minded  to  reject  no  aid  630 

Abroad,  but  resolute  to  receive  it. 

Wahingham,  Sirs, 

Bethink  you,  were  the  kingdom  so  conveyed. 
What  should  become  of  you  and  all  of  yours. 
Estates  and  honours  and  posterities, 
Being  to  such  hands  delivered. 

Burgh.  Nay,  but  these   635 

In  no  such  wise  can  be  conveyed  away 
By  personal  will,  but  by  successive  right 
Still  must  descend  in  heritage  of  law. 
Whereto  your  own  words  witness,  saying  if  this 
Were  blown  abroad  your  cause  were  utterly       640 
Lost  in  all  hearts  of  English  friends.    Therein 


Scene!.]  ^at^  ^tUHIt  1 37 

Your  thoughts  hit  right :   for  here  in  all  men's 

minds 
That  are  not  mad  with  envying  at  the  truth 
Death  were  no  loathlier  than  a  stranger  king. 
If  you  would  any  more,  speak  :   if  not  aught,      645 
This  cause  is  ended. 

Mary  Stuart.  I  require  again 

Before  a  full  and  open  parliament 
Hearing,  or  speech  in  person  with  the  queen, 
Who  shall,  I  hope,  have  of  a  queen  regard, 
And  with  the  council.    So,  in  trust  hereof,  650 

I  crave  a  word  with  some  of  you  apart. 
And  of  this  main  assembly  take  farewell. 


END  OF  THE  THIRD  ACT. 


ACT    IV 
ELIZABETH 


ACT   IV. 

Scene  I.  —  Richmond, 

Walsingham  and  Davison. 

Wahingham.   It  is  God*s  wrath,  too  sure,  that 
holds  her  hand ; 
His  plague  upon  this  people,  to  preserve 
By  her  sole  mean  her  deadliest  enemy,  known 
By  proof  more  potent  than  approof  of  law 
In  all  points  guilty,  but  on  more  than  all 
Toward  all  this  country  dangerous.  To  take  ofF 
From  the  court  held  last  month  at  Fotheringay 
Authority  with  so  full  commission  given 
To  pass  upon  her  judgment  —  suddenly 
Cut  short  by  message  of  some  three  lines  writ 
With  hurrying  hand  at  midnight,  and  despatched 
To  maim  its  work  upon  the  second  day, 
What  else  may  this  be  in  so  wise  a  queen 
But  madness,  as  a  brand  to  sear  the  brain 
Of  one  by  God  infatuate  ?  yea,  and  now 
That  she  receives  the  French  ambassador 
With  one  more  special  envoy  from  his  king. 
Except  their  message  touch  her  spleen  with  fire 
And  so  undo  itself,  we  cannot  tell 
What  doubt  may  work  upon  her.   Had  we  but 
Some  sign  more  evident  of  some  private  seal 


142  ^ar^  g)tuart  [Act  iv. 

Confirming  toward  her  by  more  personal  proof 
The  Scottish  queen's  inveteracy,  for  this 
As  for  our  country  plucked  from  imminent  death 
We  might  thank  God :  but  with  such  gracious 

words  25 

Of  piteous  challenge  and  imperial  plea 
She  hath  wrought  by  letter  on  our  mistress'  mind, 
We  may  not  think  her  judgment  so  could  slip, 
Borne  down  with  passion  or  forgetfulness. 
As  to  leave  bare  her  bitter  root  of  heart  30 

And  core  of  evil  will  there  labouring. 

Davison,  Yet 

I  see  no  shade  of  other  surety  cast 
From  any  sign  of  likelihood.    It  were 
Not  shameful  more  than  dangerous,  though  she 

bade, 
To  have  her  prisoner  privily  made  away ;  35 

Yet  stands  the  queen's  heart  wellnigh  fixed  hereon 
When  aught  may  seem  to  fix  it ;  then  as  fast 
Wavers,  but  veers  to  that  bad  point  again 
Whence    blowing    the   wind   blows   down   her 

honour,  nor 
Brings  surety  of  life  with  fame's  destruction. 

TFaL  Ay,  40 

We  are  no  Catholic  keepers,  and  his  charge 
Need  fear  no  poison  in  our  watch-dog's  fang. 
Though  he  show  honest  teeth  at  her,  to  threat 
Thieves'  hands  with  loyal  danger. 


Scene  L]  ^^at^  &tmVt  143 

EffUr   Queen  Elizabeth^  attended  by  Burghley,  Lei- 
cester,  Hunsdon,  HattoUy  and  others  of  the  Council, 

Elizabeth.  No,  my  lords, 

We  are  not  so  weak  of  wit  as  men  that  need       45 
Be  counselled  of  their  enemies.    Blame  us  not 
That  we  accuse  your  friendship  on  this  cause 
Of  too  much  fearfulness  :  France  we  will  hear, 
Nor  doubt  but  France  shall  hear  us  all  as  loud 
As  friend  or  foe  may  threaten  or  protest,  5© 

Of  our  own  heart  advised,  and  resolute  more 
Than  hearts  that  need  men's  counsel.  Bid  them  in. 

Enter  Chateauneuf  and  BellievrCy  attended. 
From  our  fair  cousin  of  France  what  message, 

sirs  ? 
Bellievre.  I,  madam,  have  in  special  charge  to 

lay 
The  king's  mind  open  to  your  majesty,  55 

Which  gives  my  tongue  first    leave  of  speech 

more  free 
Than  from  a  common  envoy.    Sure  it  is. 
No  man  more  grieves  at  what  his  heart  abhors, 
The  counsels  of  your  highness'  enemies. 
Than  doth  the  king  of  France  :  wherein  how  far  60 
The  queen  your  prisoner  have  borne  part,  or  may 
Seem  of  their  works  partaker,  he  can  judge 
Nought :  but  much  less  the  king  may  understand 
What  men  may  stand  accusers,  who  rise  up 
Judge  in  so  great  a  matter.    Men  of  law  65 


144  ^arp  g)tuart  [act  iv. 

May  lay  their  charges  on  a  subject :  but 

The  queen  of  Scotland,  dowager  queen  of  France, 

And  sister  made  by  wedlock  to  the  king, 

To  none  being  subject,  can  be  judged  of  none 

Without  such  violence  done  on  rule  as  breaks      70 

Prerogative  of  princes.    Nor  may  man 

That  looks  upon  your  present  majesty 

In  such  clear  wise  apparent,  and  retains 

Remembrance  of  your  name  through  all  the  world 

For  virtuous  wisdom,  bring  his  mind  to  think       75 

That  England's  royal-souled  Elizabeth, 

Being  set  so  high  in  fame,  can  so  forget 

Wise    Plato's    word,   that    common    souls    are 

wrought  ^ 

Out  of  dull  iron  and  slow  lead,  but  kings 
Of  gold  untempered  with  so  vile  alloy  80 

As  makes  all  metal  up  of  meaner  men. 
But  say  this  were  not  thus,  and  all  men's  awe 
Were  from  all  time  toward  kingship  merely  vain. 
And  state  no  more  worth  reverence,  yet  the  plea 
Were  nought  which  here  your  ministers  pretend,  85 
That  while  the  queen  of  Scots  lives  you  may  live 
No  day  that  knows  not  danger.   Were  she  dead. 
Rather  might  then  your  peril  wax  indeed 
To  shape  and  sense  of  heavier  portent,  whom 
The  Catholic  states  now  threat  not,  nor  your  land,  90 
For  this  queen's  love,  but  rather  for  their  faith's, 
Whose  cause,  were  she  by  violent  hand  removed. 


Scene  I]  ^ar^  g^tUatt  145 

Could  be  but  furthered,  and  its  enterprise 

Put  on  more  strong  and  prosperous  pretext ;  yea, 

You  shall  but  draw  the  invasion  on  this  land         95 

Whose  threat  you  so  may  think  to  stay,  and  bring 

Imminence  down  of  inroad.    Thus  far  forth 

The  queen  of  Scots  hath  for  your  person  been 

Even  as  a  targe  or  buckler  which  has  caught 

All  intercepted  shafts  against  your  state  100 

Shot,  or  a  stone  held  fast  within  your  hand, 

Which,  if  you  cast  it  thence  in  fear  or  wrath 

To  smite  your  adversary,  is  cast  away, 

And  no  mean  left  therein  for  menace.    If 

You  lay  but  hand  upon  her  life,  albeit  105 

There  were  that  counselled  this,  her  death  will 

make 
Your  enemies  weapons  of  their  own  despair 
And  give  their  whetted  wrath  excuse  and  edge 
More  plausibly  to  strike  more  perilously. 
Your  grace  is  known  for  strong  in  foresight :   we  "o 
These  nineteen  years  of  your  wise  reign  have 

kept 
Fast  watch  in  France  upon  you  :  of  those  claims 
Which  lineally  this  queen  here  prisoner  may 
Put  forth  on  your  succession  have  you  made 
The  stoutest  rampire  of  your  rule :   and  this        115 
Is  grown  a  byword  with  us,  that  their  cause 
Who  shift  the  base  whereon  their  policies  lean 
Bows  down  toward  ruin  :  and  of  loyal  heart 


146  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  iv. 

This  will  I  tell  you,  madam,  which  hath  been 
Given  me  for  truth  assured  of  one  whose  place  120 
Affirms  him  honourable,  how  openly 
A  certain  prince's  minister  that  well 
May  stand  in  your  suspicion  says  abroad 
That  for  his  master's  greatness  it  were  good 
The  queen  of  Scots  were  lost  already,  seeing      125 
He  is  well  assured  the  Catholics  here  should  then 
All  wholly  range  them  on  his  master's  part. 
Thus  long  hath  reigned  your  highness  happily, 
Who  have   loved   fair  temperance    more    than 

violence  :   now. 
While  honour  bids  have  mercy,  wisdom  holds    130 
Equal  at  least  the  scales  of  interest.    Think 
What  name  shall  yours  be  found   in  time  far 

hence, 
Even  as  you  deal  with  her  that  in  your  hand 
Lies  not  more  subject  than  your  fame  to  come 
In  men's  repute  that  shall  be.    Bid  her  live,        135 
And  ever  shall  my  lord  stand  bound  to  you 
And  you  for  ever  firm  in  praise  of  men. 

Eliz.  I  am   sorry,  sir,  you  are  hither  come 

from  France 
Upon  no  better  errand.    I  appeal 
To  God  for  judge  between  my  cause  and  hers    140 
Whom  here  you  stand  for.    In  this  realm  of  mine 
The  queen  of  Scots  sought  shelter,  and  therein 
Hath  never  found  but  kindness  j  for  which  grace 


Scene  I.)  ^Ht^  ^tmtt  I47 

In  recompense  she  hath  three  times  sought  my 

life. 
No  grief  that  on  this  head  yet  ever  fell  H5 

Shook  ever  from  mine  eyes  so  many  a  tear 
As  this  last  plot  upon  it.    I  have  read 
As  deep  I  doubt  me  in  as  many  books 
As  any  queen  or  prince  in  Christendom, 
Yet  never  chanced  on  aught  so  strange  and  sad  150 
As  this  my  state's  calamity.    Mine  own  life 
Is  by  mere  nature  precious  to  myself, 
And  in  mine  own  realm  I  can  live  not  safe. 
I  am  a  poor  lone  woman,  girt  about 
With  secret  enemies  that  perpetually  '55 

Lay  wait  for  me  to  kill  me.    From  your  king 
Why  have  not  I  my  traitor  to  my  hands 
Delivered  up,  who  now  this  second  time 
Hath  sought  to  slay  me,  Morgan  ?    On  my  part. 
Had  mine  own  cousin  Hunsdon  here  conspired  160 
Against  the  French  king's  life,  he  had  found 

not  so 
Refuge  of  me,  nor  even  for  kindred's  sake 
From  the  edge  of  law  protection  :  and  this  cause 
Needs  present  evidence  of  this  man's  mouth. 
Bell.   Madam,  there  stand  against  the  queen 

of  Scots  165 

Already  here  in  England  on  this  charge 
So  many  and  they  so  dangerous  witnesses 
No  need  can  be  to  bring  one  over  more : 


1 4  8  £par^  Stuart  [act  iv. 

Nor  can  the  king  show  such  unnatural  heart 

As  to  send  hither  a  knife  for  enemies'  hands       170 

To  cut  his  sister's  throat.    Most  earnestly 

My  lord  expects  your  resolution  :   which 

If  we  receive  as  given  against  his  plea, 

I  must  crave  leave  to  part  for  Paris  hence. 

Yet  give  me  pardon  first  if  yet  once  more  175 

I  pray  your  highness  be  assured,  and  so 

Take  heed  in  season,  you  shall  find  this  queen 

More  dangerous  dead  than  living.    Spare  her  life, 

And  not  my  lord  alone  but  all  that  reign 

Shall  be  your  sureties  in  all  Christian  lands  180 

Against  all  scathe  of  all  conspiracies 

Made  on  her  party  :   while  such  remedies'  ends 

As  physic  states  with  bloodshedding,  to  cure 

Danger  by  death,  bring  fresh  calamities 

Far  oftener  forth  than  the  old  are  healed  of  them  185 

Which  so  men  thought  to  medicine.    To  refrain 

From  that  red-handed  way  of  rule,  and  set 

Justice  no  higher  than  mercy  sits  beside. 

Is  the  first  mean  of  kings'  prosperity 

That  would  reign  long  :  nor  will  my  lord  believe  190 

Your  highness  could  put  off  yourself  so  much 

As  to  reverse  and  tread  upon  the  law 

That  you  thus  long  have  kept  and  honourably  : 

But  should  this  perilous  purpose  hold  right  on, 

I  am  bounden  by  my  charge  to  say,  the  king       195 

Will  not  regard  as  liable  to  your  laws 


Scene  I]  ^^t^  ^tmtt  149 

A  queen's  imperial  person,  nor  will  hold 
Her  death  as  but  the  general  wrong  of  kings 
And  no  more  his  than  as  his  brethren's  all, 
But  as  his  own  and  special  injury  done,  200 

More  than  to  these  injurious. 

E/iz.  Doth  your  lord 

Bid  you  speak  thus  ? 

Bell.  Ay,  madam  :   from  his  mouth 

Had  I  command  what  speech  to  use. 

E/iz.  You  have  done 

Better  to  speak  than  he  to  send  it.    Sir, 
You  shall  not  presently  depart  this  land  205 

As  one  denied  of  mere  discourtesy. 
I  will  return  an  envoy  of  mine  own 
To  speak  for  me  at  Paris  with  the  king. 
You  shall  bear  back  a  letter  from  my  hand, 
And  give  your  lord  assurance,  having  seen,         aio 
I  cannot  be  so  frighted  with  men's  threats 
That  they  shall  not  much  rather  move  my  mind 
To  quicken  than  to  slack  the  righteous  doom 
Which  none  must  think  by  menace  to  put  back, 
Or  daunt  it  with  defiance.    Sirs,  good  day.  215 

Exeunt  Ambassadors. 
I  were  as  one  belated  with  false  lights 
If  I  should  think  to  steer  my  darkling  way 
By  twilight  furtherance  of  their  wiles  and  words. 
Think  you,  my  lords,  France  yet  would  have 
her  live  ? 


ISO  ^ar^  S)tuart  [activ. 

Burghley.  If  there  be  other  than  the  apparent 

end  2io 

Hid  in  this  mission  to  your  majesty, 
Mine  envoys  can  by  no  means  fathom  it, 
Who  deal  for  me  at  Paris  :   fear  of  Spain 
Lays  double  hand  as  't  were  upon  the  king. 
Lest  by  removal  of  the  queen  of  Scots  225 

A  way  be  made  for  peril  in  the  claim 
More  potent  then  of  Philip  ;  and  if  there  come 
From  his  Farnese  note  of  enterprise 
Or  danger  this  way  tending,  France  will  yet 
Cleave  to  your  friendship  though  his  sister  die.  230 

El'fL.  So,  in  your  mind,  this  half-souled  bro- 
ther would 
Steer  any  way  that  might  keep  safe  his  sail 
Against  a  southern  wind,  which  here,  he  thinks. 
Her  death  might  strengthen  from  the  north  again 
To  blow  against  him  ofF  our  subject  straits,        235 
Made  servile  then  and  Spanish  ?    Yet  perchance 
There  swells  behind  our  seas  a  heart  too  high 
To  bow  more  easily  down,  and  bring  this  land 
More  humbly  to  such  handling,  than  their  waves 
Bow  down  to  ships  of  strangers,  or  their  storms  240 
To  breath  of  any  lord  on  earth  but  God. 
What  thinks  our  cousin  ? 

Hunsdon.  That  if  Spain  or  France 

Or  both  be  stronger  than  the  heart  in  us 
Which  beats  to  battle  ere  they  menace,  why. 


scsnel]  £par^g>tuart  151 

In  God's  name,  let  them  rise  and  make  their  prey  245 
Of  what  was  England  :  but  if  neither  be, 
The  smooth-cheeked  French  man-harlot,nor  that 

hand 
Which  holp  to  light  Rome's  fires  with  English 

limbs, 
Let  us  not  keep  to  make  their  weakness  strong 
A  pestilence  here  alive  in  England,  which  250 

Gives  force  to  their  faint  enmities,  and  burns 
Half  the  heart  out  of  loyal  trust  and  hope 
With  heat  that  kindles  treason. 

Eliz.  By  this  light, 

I  have  heard  worse  counsel  from  a  wise  man's 

tongue 
Than  this  clear  note  of  forthright  soldiership.     255 
How  say  you,  Dudley,  to  it  ? 

Leicester,  Madam,  ere  this 

You  have  had  my  mind  upon  the  matter,  writ 
But  late  from  Holland,  that  no  public  stroke 
Should  fall  upon  this  princess,  who  may  be 
By  privy  death  more  happily  removed  260 

Without  impeach  of  majesty,  nor  leave 
A  sign  against  your  judgment,  to  call  down 
Blame  of  strange  kings  for  wrong  to  kingship 

wrought 
Though  right  were  done  to  justice. 

Elix.  Of  your  love 

We  know  it  is  that  comes  this  counsel ;  nor,     265 


152  ^ar^  Stuart  [activ. 

Had  we  such  friends  of  all  our  servants,  need 
Our   mind  be  now   distraught  with  dangerous 

doubts 
That  find  no  screen  from  dangers.    Yet  meseems 
One  doubt  stands  now  removed,  if  doubt  there 

were 
Of  aught  from  Scotland  ever  :   Walsingham,       270 
You  should  have  there  intelligence  whereof 
To  make  these  lords  with  us  partakers. 

Wal.  Nay, 

Madam,  no  more  than  from  a  trustless  hand 
Protest  and  promise  :   of  those  twain  that  come 
Hot  on  these  Frenchmen's  heels  in  embassy,       275 
He  that  in  counsel  on  this  cause  was  late 
One  with  my  lord  of  Leicester  now,  to  rid 
By  draught  of  secret  death  this  queen  away. 
Bears  charge  to  say  as  these  gone  hence  have  said 
In  open  audience,  but  by  personal  note  280 

Hath  given  me  this  to  know,  that  howsoe'er 
His  king  indeed  desire  her  life  be  spared 
Much  may  be  wrought  upon  him,  would  your 

grace 
More  richly  line  his  ragged  wants  with  gold 
And  by  full  utterance  of  your  parliament  285 

Approve  him  heir  in  England. 

Eli%.  Ay  !   no  more  ? 

God's  blood  !   what  grace  is  proffered  us  at  need. 
And  on  what  mild  conditions  !    Say  I  will  not 


Scene  I.]  ^at^  ^tmtt  1 5  3 

Redeem  such  perils  at  so  dear  a  price, 
Shall  not  our  pensioner  too  join  hands  with  France  290 
And  pay  my  gold  with  iron  barter  back 
At  edge  of  sword  he  dares  not  look  upon, 
They  tell  us,  for  the  scathe  and  scare  he  took 
Even  in  this  woman's  womb  when  shot  and  steel 
Undid  the  manhood  in  his  veins  unborn  ^95 

And  left  his  tongue's  threats  handless? 

fFal.  Men  there  be 

Your  majesty  must  think,  who  bear  but  ill. 
For  pride  of  country  and  high-heartedness. 
To  see  the  king  they  serve  your  servant  so 
That  not  his  mother's  life  and  once  their  queen's  3°° 
Being  at  such  point  of  peril  can  enforce 
One  warlike  word  of  his  for  chance  of  war 
Conditional  against  you.    Word  came  late 
From  Edinburgh  that  there  the  citizens 
With  hoot  and  hiss  had  bayed  him  through  the 

streets  3^5 

As  he  went  heartless  by ;  of  whom  they  had  heard 
This  published  saying,  that  in  his  personal  mind 
The  blood  of  kindred  or  affinity 
So  much  not  binds  us  as  the  friendship  pledged 
To  them  that  are  not  of  our  blood  :  and  this      310 
Stands  clear  for  certain,  that  no  breath  of  war 
Shall  breathe  from  him  against  us  though  she  die, 
Except  his  titular  claim  be  reft  from  him 
On  our  succession  :  and  that  all  his  mind 


154  ^at^  Stuart  [activ. 

Is  but  to  reign  unpartnered  with  a  power  315 

Which  should  weigh  down  that  half  his  king- 
dom's weight 
Left  to  his  hand's  share  nominally  in  hold : 
And  for  his  mother,  this  would  he  desire, 
That  she  were  kept  from  this  day  to  her  death 
Close  prisoner  in  one  chamber,  never  more         3^0 
To  speak  with  man  or  woman  :   and  hereon 
That  proclamation  should  be  made  of  her 
As  of  one  subject  formally  declared 
To  the  English  law  whereby,  if  she  offend 
Again  with  iterance  of  conspiracy,  325 

She  shall  not  as  a  queen  again  be  tried, 
But  as  your  vassal  and  a  private  head 
Live  liable  to  the  doom  and  stroke  of  death. 
Eliz.  She  is  bounden  to  him  as  he  long  since 
to  her, 
Who  would  have  given  his  kingdom  up  at  least 33° 
To  his  dead  father's  slayer,  in  whose  red  hand 
How  safe  had  lain  his  life  too  doubt  may  guess. 
Which  yet  kept  dark  her  purpose  then  on  him. 
Dark  now  no  more  to  usward.    Think  you  then 
That  they  belie  him,  whose  suspicion  saith  335 

His  ear  and  heart  are  yet  inclined  to  Spain, 
If  from  that  brother-in-law  that  was  of  ours 
And  would  have  been  our  bridegroom  he  may  win 
Help  of  strange  gold  and  foreign  soldiership. 
With  Scottish  furtherance  of  those  Catholic  lords  340 


Scene  L]  ^^t^  ^tmtt  1 55 

Who  are  stronger-spirited  in  their  faith  than  ours, 
Being  harried  more  of  heretics,  as  they  say. 
Than  these  within  our  borders,  to  root  out 
The  creed  there  stablished  now,  and  do  to  death 
Its  ministers,  with  all  the  lords  their  friends,       345 
Lay  hands  on  all  strong  places  there,  and  rule 
As  prince  upon  their  party  ?   since  he  fain 
From  ours  would  be  divided,  and  cast  in 
His  lot  with  Rome  against  us  too,  from  these 
Might  he  but  earn  assurance  of  their  faith,  35° 

Revolting  from  his  own.    May  these  things  be 
More  than  mere  muttering  breath  of  trustless  lies, 
And  half  his  heart  yet  hover  toward  our  side 
For  all  such  hope  or  purpose  ? 

fFal.  Of  his  heart 

We  know  not,  madam,  surely ;  nor  doth  he        35s 
Who  follows  fast  on  their  first  envoy  sent. 
And  writes  to  excuse  him  of  his  message  here 
On  her  behalf  apparent,  but  in  sooth 
Aimed  otherwise ;  the  Master  I  mean  of  Gray, 
Who  swears  me  here  by  letter,  if  he  be  not        360 
True  to  the  queen  of  England,  he  is  content 
To  have  his  head  fall  on  a  scaffold  :   saying. 
To  put  from  him  this  charge  of  embassy 
Had  been  his  ruin,  but  the  meaning  of  it 
Is  modest  and  not  menacing :   whereto  365 

If  you  will  yield  not  yet  to  spare  the  life 
So  near  its  forfeit  now,  he  thinks  it  well 


156  ^ar^  Stuart  [activ. 

You  should  be  pleased  by  some  commission  given 
To  stay  by  the  way  his  comrade  and  himself, 
Or  bid  them  back. 

Eliz.  What  man  is  this  then,  sent  37° 

With  such  a  knave  to  fellow  ? 

Wal,  No  such  knave. 

But  still  your  prisoner's  friend  of  old  time  found: 
Sir  Robert  Melville. 

Elix.  And  an  honest  man 

As  faith  might  wish  her  servants :  but  what  pledge 
Will  these  produce  me  for  security  375 

That  I  may  spare  this  dangerous  life  and  live 
Unscathed  of  after  practice  ? 

JVal.  As  I  think. 

The  king's  self  and  his  whole  nobility 
Will  be  her  personal  pledges;  and  her  son, 
If  England  yield  her  to  his  hand  in  charge,  380 

On  no  less  strait  a  bond  will  undertake 
For  her  safe  keeping. 

Elix.  That  were  even  to  arm 

With  double  power  mine  adversary,  and  make  him 
The  stronger  by  my  hand  to  do  me  hurt  — 
Were  he  mine  adversary  indeed  :  which  yet        385 
I  will  not  hold  him.    Let  them  find  a  mean 
For  me  to  live  unhurt  and  save  her  life. 
It  shall  well  please  me.    Say  this  king  of  Scots 
Himself  would  give  his  own  inheritance  up 
Pretended  in  succession,  if  but  once  390 


Scene  I]  ^Ht^  ^tUatt  157 

Her  hand  were  found  or  any  friend's  of  hers 

Again  put  forth  upon  me  for  her  sake, 

Why,  haply  so  might  hearts  be  satisfied 

Of  lords  and  commons  then  to  let  her  live. 

But  this  I  doubt  he  had  rather  take  her  life         395 

Himself  than  yield  up  to  us  for  pledge  :  and  less, 

These  men  shall  know  of  me,  I  will  not  take 

In  price  of  her  redemption  :  which  were  else, 

And  haply  may  in  no  wise  not  be  held, 

To  this  my  loyal  land  and  mine  own  trust  400 

A  deadlier  stroke  and  blast  of  sound  more  dire 

Than  noise  of  fleets  invasive. 

WaL  Surely  so 

Would  all  hearts  hold  it,  madam,  in  that  land 
That  are  not  enemies  of  the  land  and  yours  ; 
For  ere  the  doom  had  been  proclaimed  an  hour405 
Which  gave  to  death  your  main  foe's  head  and 

theirs 
Yourself  have  heard  what  fire  of  joy  brake  forth 
From  all  your  people :  how  their  church-towers  all 
Rang  in  with  jubilant  acclaim  of  bells 
The  day  that  bore  such  tidings,  and  the  night     410 
That  laughed  aloud  with  lightning  of  their  joy 
And  thundered  round  its  triumph  :  twice  twelve 

hours 
This  tempest  of  thanksgiving  roared  and  shone 
Sheer  from  the  Solway's  to  the  Channel's  foam 
With  light  as  from  one  festal-flaming  hearth       4^5 


158  ^m^tmtt  [Act  IV. 

And  sound  as  of  one  trumpet :  not  a  tongue 
But  praised  God  for  it,  or  heart  that  leapt  not  up, 
Save  of  your  traitors  and  their  country's  :   these 
Withered  at  heart  and  shrank  their  heads  in  close, 
As  though  the  bright  sun's  were  a  basilisk's  eye, 420 
And  light,  that  gave  all  others  comfort,  flame 
And  smoke  to  theirs  of  hell's  own  darkness,  whence 
Such  eyes  were  blinded  or  put  out  with  fire. 

Eiiz.  Yea,  I  myself,!  mind  me, might  not  sleep 
Those  twice  twelve  hours  thou  speak' st  of.    By 

God's  light,  4^5 

Be  it  most  in  love  of  me  or  fear  of  her 
I  know  not,  but  my  people  seems  in  sooth 
Hot  and  an  hungered  on  this  trail  of  hers  : 
Nor  is  it  a  people  bloody-minded,  used 
To  lap  the  life  up  of  an  enemy's  vein  430 

Who   bleeds   to  death  unweaponed :   our  good 

hounds 
Will  course  a  quarry  soldierlike  in  war. 
But  rage  not  hangmanlike  upon  the  prey. 
To  flesh  their  fangs  on  limbs  that  strive  not :  yet 
Their  hearts  are  hotter  on  this  course  than  mine,435 
Which  most  was  deadliest  aimed  at. 

PFal.  Even  for  that 

How  should  not  theirs  be  hot  as  fire  from  hell 
To  burn  your  danger  up  and  slay  that  soul 
Alive  that  seeks  it  ?    Thinks  your  majesty 
There  beats  a  heart  where  treason  hath  not  turned  44° 


Scene!.]  ^^t^  ^tmtt  159 

All  English  blood  to  poison,  which  would  feel 
No  deadlier  pang  of  dread  more  deathful  to  it 
To  hear  of  yours  endangered  than  to  feel 
A  sword  against  its  own  life  bent,  or  know 
Death  imminent  as  darkness  overhead  445 

That  takes  the  noon  from  one  man's  darkening 

eye 
As  must  your  death  from  all  this  people's  ?  You 
Are  very  England  :  in  your  light  of  life 
This  living  land  of  yours  walks  only  safe, 
And  all  this  breathing  people  with  your  breath    45° 
Breathes  unenslaved,  and  draws  at  each  pulse  in 
Freedom  :  your  eye  is  light  of  theirs,  your  word 
As  God's  to  comfort  England,  whose  whole  soul 
Is  made  with  yours  one,  and  her  witness  you 
That  Rome  or  hell  shall  take  not  hold  on  her    455 
Again  till  God  be  wroth  with  us  so  much 
As  to  reclaim  for  heaven  the  star  that  yet 
Lights  all  your  land  that  looks  on  it,  and  gives 
Assurance  higher  than  danger  dares  assail 
Save  in  this  lady's  name  and  service,  who  460 

Must  now  from  you  take  judgment. 

Eiiz.  Must !  by  God, 

I  know  not  must  but  as  a  word  of  mine. 
My  tongue's  and  not  mine  ear's  familiar.    Sirs, 
Content  yourselves  to  know  this  much  of  us. 
Or  having  known  remember,  that  we  sent  465 

The  Lord  of  Buckhurst  and  our  servant  Beale 


i6o  ^ar^  S)tuart  [activ. 

To  acquaint  this  queen  our  prisoner  with  the 

doom 
Confirmed  on  second  trial  against  her,  saying 
Her  word  can  weigh  not  down  the  weightier  guilt 
Approved  upon  her,  and  by  parliament  470 

Since  fortified  with  sentence.    Yea,  my  lords, 
Ye  should  forget  not  how  by  message  then 
I  bade  her  know  of  me  with  what  strong  force 
Of  strenuous  and  invincible  argument 
I  am  urged  to  hold  no  more  in  such  delay  475 

The  process  of  her  execution,  being 
The  seed-plot  of  these  late  conspiracies, 
Their  author  and  chief  motive  :  and  am  told 
That  if  I  yield  not  mine  the  guilt  must  be 
In  God's  and  in  the  whole  world's  suffering  sight 480 
Of  all  the  miseries  and  calamities 
To  ensue  on  my  refusal :  whence,  albeit 
I  know  not  yet  how  God  shall  please  to  incline 
My  heart  on  that  behalf,  I  have  thought  it  meet 
In  conscience  yet  that  she  should  be  forewarned, 485 
That  so  she  might  bethink  her  of  her  sins 
Done  both  toward  God  offensive  and  to  me 
And  pray  for  grace  to  be  true  penitent 
For  all  these  faults  :  which,  had  the  main  fault 

reached 
No  further  than  mine  own  poor  person,  God      490 
Stands   witness  with  what  truth  my  heart  pro- 
tests 


Scene  I.]  ^Ht^  ^tUatC  1 6 1 

I  freely  would  have  pardoned.    She  to  this 
Makes  bitter  answer  as  of  desperate  heart 
All  we  may  wreak  our  worst  upon  her ;  whom 
Having  to  death  condemned,  we  may  fulfil         495 
Our  wicked  work,  and  God  in  Paradise 
With  just  atonement  shall  requite  her.    This 
Ye  see  is  all  the  pardon  she  will  ask, 
Being   only,  and  even   as  't  were  with  prayer, 

desired 
To  crave  of  us  forgiveness  :  and  thereon  s°° 

Being  by  Lord  Buckhurst  charged  on  this  point 

home 
That  by  her  mean  the  Catholics  here  had  learnt 
To  hold  her  for  their  sovereign,  on  which  cause 
Nor  my  religion  nor  myself  might  live 
Uncharged  with  danger  while  her  life  should  last,  505 
She  answering  gives  God  thanks  aloud  to  be 
Held  of  so  great  account  upon  his  side. 
And  in  God's  cause  and  in  the  church  of  God's 
Rejoicingly  makes  offering  of  her  life; 
Which  I,  God  knows  how  unrejoicingly,  510 

Can  scarce,  ye  tell  me,  choose  but  take,  or  yield 
At  least  for  you  to  take  it.    Yet,  being  told 
It  is  not  for  religion  she  must  die. 
But  for  a  plot  by  compass  of  her  own 
Laid  to  dethrone  me  and  destroy,  she  casts  515 

Again  this  answer  barbed  with  mockery  back, 
She  was  not  so  presumptuous  born,  to  aspire 


1 62  ^ar^  Stuart  [activ. 

To  two  such  ends  yet  ever :  yea,  so  far 

She  dwelt  from  such  desire  removed  in  heart, 

She  would  not  have  me  suffer  by  her  will  5^0 

The  fillip  of  a  finger :   though  herself 

Be  persecuted  even  as  David  once 

And  her  mishap  be  that  she  cannot  so 

Fly  by  the  window  forth  as  David  :   whence 

It  seems  she  likens  us  to  Saul,  and  looks  515 

Haply  to  see  us  as  on  Mount  Gilboa  fallen. 

Where  yet,  for  all  the  shooters  on  her  side. 

Our  shield  shall  be  not  vilely  cast  away. 

As  of  one  unanointed.    Yet,  my  lords. 

If  England  might  but  by  my  death  attain  530 

A  state  more  flourishing  with  a  better  prince, 

Gladly  would  I  lay  down  my  life  ;    who  have 

No  care  save  only  for  my  people's  sake 

To  keep  it :   for  myself,  in  all  the  world 

I  see  no  great  cause  why  for  all  this  coil  535 

I  should  be  fond  to  live  or  fear  to  die. 

If  I  should  say  unto  you  that  I  mean 

To  grant  not  your  petition,  by  my  faith. 

More  should  I  so  say  haply  than  I  mean  : 

Or  should  I  say  I  mean  to  grant  it,  this  540 

Were,  as  I  think,  to  tell  you  of  my  mind 

More  than  is  fit  for  you  to  know  :   and  thus 

I  must  for  all  petitionary  prayer 

Deliver  you  an  answer  answerless. 

Yet  will  I  pray  God  lighten  my  dark  mind  545 


Scene  n]  ^^t^  ^tmtt  1 63 

That  being  illumined  it  may  thence  foresee 
What  for  his  church  and  all  this  commonwealth 
May  most  be  profitable  :   and  this  once  known, 
My  hand  shall  halt  not  long  behind  his  will. 

Scene  II.  —  Fotheringay. 

Sir  Amyas  Paulet  and  Sir  Drew  Drury. 

Paulet.  I  never  gave  God  heartier  thanks  than 
these 
I  give  to  have  you  partner  of  my  charge 
Now  most  of  all,  these  letters  being  to  you 
No  less  designed  than  me,  and  you  in  heart 
One  with  mine  own  upon  them.    Certainly,  5 

When  I  put  hand  to  pen  this  morning  past 
That  Master  Davison  by  mine  evidence 
Might  note  what  sore  disquietudes  I  had 
To  increase  my  griefs  before  of  body  and  mind, 
I  looked  for  no  such  word  to  cut  off  mine  10 

As  these  to  us  both  of  Walsingham's  and  his. 
Would  rather  yet  I  had  cause  to  still  complain 
Of  those  unanswered  letters  two  months  past 
Than  thus  be  certified  of  such  intents 
As  God  best  knoweth  I  never  sought  to  know,   15 
Or  search  out  secret  causes  :   though  to  hear 
Nothing  at  all  did  breed,  as  I  confessed, 
In  me  some  hard  conceits  against  myself, 
I  had  rather  yet  rest  ignorant  than  ashamed 


1 64  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  iv. 

Of  such  ungracious  knowledge.   This  shall  be     20 
Fruit  as  I  think  of  dread  wrought  on  the  queen 
By  those  seditious  rumours  whose  report 
Blows  fear  among  the  people  lest  our  charge 
Escape  our  trust,  or  as  they  term  it  now 
Be  taken  away,  —  such  apprehensive  tongues       25 
So  phrase  it,  —  and   her  freedom  strike  men's 

hearts 
More  deep  than  all  these  flying  fears  that  say 
London  is  fired  of  Papists,  or  the  Scots 
Have  crossed  in  arms  the  Border,  or  the  north 
Is  risen  again  rebellious,  or  the  Guise  30 

Is  disembarked  in  Sussex,  or  that  now 
In  Milford  Haven  rides  a  Spanish  fleet  — 
All  which,  albeit  but  footless  floating  lies. 
May  all  too  easily  smite  and  work  too  far 
Even  on  the  heart  most  royal  in  the  world  35 

That  ever  was  a  woman's. 

Drury.  Good  my  friend, 

These  noises  come  without  a  thunderbolt 
In  such  dense  air  of  dusk  expectancy 
As  all  this  land  lies  under ;  nor  will  some 
Doubt  or  think  much  to  say  of  those  reports       40 
They  are  broached  and  vented  of  men's  cred- 
ulous mouths 
Whose  ears  have  caught  them  from  such  lips  as 

meant 
Merely  to  strike  more  terror  in  the  queen 


Scene  II.]  ^Ht^  ^tUHtt  1 65 

And  wring  that  warrant  from  her  hovering  hand 
Which  falters  yet  and  flutters  on  her  lip  45 

While  the  hand   hangs  and  trembles  half  ad- 
vanced 
Upon  that  sentence  which,  the  treasurer  said, 
Should  well  ere  this  have  spoken,  seeing  it  was 
More  than  a  full  month  old  and  four  days  more 
When  he  so  looked  to  hear  the  word  of  it  5° 

Which  yet  lies  sealed  of  silence. 

Paul.  Will  you  say, 

Or  any  as  wise  and  loyal,  say  or  think 
It  was  but  for  a  show,  to  scare  men's  wits. 
They  have  raised  this  hue  and  cry  upon  her  flight 
Supposed  from  hence,  to  waken  Exeter  55 

With  noise  from  Honiton  and  Sampfield  spread 
Of  proclamation  to  detain  all  ships 
And  lay  all  highways  for  her  day  and  night. 
And  send  like  precepts  out  four  manner  of  ways 
From  town  to  town,  to  make  in  readiness  60 

Their  armour  and  artillery,  with  all  speed, 
On  pain  of  death,  for  London  by  report 
Was  set  on  fire  ?   though,  God    be    therefore 

praised. 
We  know  this  is  not,  yet  the  noise  hereof 
Were  surely  not  to  be  neglected,  seeing  65 

There  is,  meseems,  indeed  no  readier  way 
To  levy  forces  for  the  achieving  that 
Which  so  these  lewd  reporters  feign  to  fear. 


1 66  ^ar^  g>tuart  [activ. 

Drury.  Why,  in  such  mighty  matters  and  such 
mists 
Wise  men  may  think  what  hardly  fools  would  say,  70 
And  eyes  get  glimpse  of  more  than   sight  hath 

leave 
To  give  commission  for  the  babbling  tongue 
Aloud  to  cry  they  have  seen.    This  noise  that  was 
Upon  one  Arden's  flight,  a  traitor,  whence 
Fear  flew  last  week  all  round  us,  gave  but  note    75 
How  lightly  may  men's  minds  take  fire,  and  words 
Take  wing  that  have  no  feet  to  fare  upon 
More  solid  than  a  shadow. 

Paul.  Nay,  he  was 

Escaped  indeed  :  and  every  day  thus  brings 
Forth  its  new  mischief:  as  this  last  month  did     80 
Those  treasons  of  the  French  ambassador 
Designed  against  our  mistress,  which  God's  grace 
Laid  by  the  knave's  mean   bare  to  whom  they 

sought 
For  one  to  slay  her,  and  of  the  Pope's  hand  earn 
Ten  thousand  blood-encrusted  crowns  a  year       85 
To  his  most  hellish  hire.    You  will  not  say 
This  too  was  merely  fraud  or  vision  wrought 
By  fear  or  cloudy  falsehood  ? 

Drury.  I  will  say 

No  more  or  surelier  than  I  know :   and  this 
I  know  not  thoroughly  to  the  core  of  truth  9° 

Or  heart  of  falsehood  in  it.    A  man  may  lie 


Scene  n.]  ^^t^  ^tmtt  167 

Merely,  or  trim  some  bald  lean  truth  with  lies, 
Or  patch  bare  falsehood  with  some  tatter  of  truth. 
And  each  of  these  pass  current :  but  of  these 
Which  likeliest  may  this  man's  tale  be  who  gave  95 
Word  of  his  own  temptation  by  these  French 
To  hire  them  such  a  murderer,  and  avowed 
He  held  it  godly  cunning  to  comply 
And  bring  this  envoy's  secretary  to  sight 
Of  one  clapped  up  for  debts  in  Newgate,  who    100 
Being  thence  released  might  readily,  as  he  said. 
Even  by  such  means  as  once  this  lady's  lord 
Was  made  away  with,  make  the  queen  away 
With  powder  fired  beneath  her  bed — why,  this, 
Good  sooth,  I  guess  not;   but  I  doubt  the  man  105 
To  be  more  liar  than  fool,  and  yet,  God  wot. 
More  fool  than  traitor ;  most  of  all  intent 
To  conjure  coin  forth  of  the  Frenchman's  purse 
With  tricks  of  mere  effrontery  :   thus  at  least 
We  know  did  Walsingham  esteem  of  him  :         "o 
And  if  by  Davison  held  of  more  account. 
Or  merely  found  more  serviceable,  and  made 
A  mean  to  tether  up  those  quick  French  tongues 
From  threat  or  pleading  for  this  prisoner's  life, 
I  cannot  tell,  and  care  not.   Though  the  queen  115 
Hath  stayed  this  envoy's  secretary  from  flight 
Forth  of  the  kingdom,  and  committed  him 
To  ward  within  the  Tower  while  Chateauneuf 
Himself  should  come  before  a  council  held 


i68  ^ar^  g>tuart  [activ. 

At  my  lord  treasurer's,  where  being  thus  accused  120 

At  first  he  cared  not  to  confront  the  man, 

But  stood  upon  his  office,  and  the  charge 

Of  his  king's  honour  and  prerogative  — 

Then  bade  bring  forth  the  knave,  who   being 

brought  forth 
Outfaced  him  with  insistence  front  to  front        125 
And  took  the  record  of  this  whole  tale's  truth 
Upon  his  soul's  damnation,  challenging 
The  Frenchman's  answer  in  denial  hereof. 
That  of  his  own  mouth  had  this  witness  been 
Traitorously  tempted,  and  by  personal  plea         130 
Directly  drawn  to  treason  :   which  awhile 
Struck  dumb  the   ambassador  as  amazed  with 

wrath. 
Till  presently,  the  accuser  being  removed, 
He  made  avowal  this  fellow  some  while  since 
Had  given  his  secretary  to  wit  there  lay  135 

One  bound  in  Newgate  who  being  thence  released 
Would  take  the  queen's   death   on    his   hand  : 

whereto 
Answering,  he  bade  the  knave  avoid  his  house 
On  pain,  if  once  their  ways  should  cross,  to  be 
Sent  bound  before  the  council  :   who  replied        140 
He  had  done  foul  wrong  to  take  no  further  note. 
But  being  made  privy  to  this  damned  device 
Keep  close  its  perilous  knowledge  j  whence  the 

queen 


Scene  II.]  £0Ut^  ^tmtt  1 69 

Might  well  complain  against  him ;  and  hereon 

They  fell  to  wrangling  on  this  cause,  that  he      145 

Professed  himself  to  no  man  answerable 

For  declaration  or  for  secret  held 

Save  his  own  master:   so  that  now  is  gone 

Sir  William  Wade  to  Paris,  not  with  charge 

To  let  the  king  there  know  this  queen  shall  live,  150 

But  to  require  the  ambassador's  recall 

And  swift  delivery  of  our  traitors  there 

To  present  justice  :  yet  may  no  man  say, 

For  all  these  half-faced  scares  and  policies, 

Here  was  more  sooth  than  seeming. 

Paul.  Why,  these  crafts  155 

Were  shameful  then  as  fear's  most  shameful  self, 
If  thus  your  wit  read  them  aright ;  and  we 
Should  for  our  souls  and  lives  alike  do  ill 
To  jeopard  them  on  such  men's  surety  given 
As  make  no  more  account  of  simple  faith  160 

Than  true  men  make  of  liars  :  and  these  are  they. 
Our  friends  and  masters,  that  rebuke  us  both 
By  speech  late  uttered  of  her  majesty 
For  lack  of  zeal  in  service  and  of  care 
She  looked  for  at  our  hands,  in  that  we  have  not  165 
In  all  this  time,  unprompted,  of  ourselves 
Found  out  some  way  to  cut  this  queen's  life  ofF, 
Seeing  how  great  peril,  while  her  enemy  lives. 
She  is  hourly  subject  unto :   saying,  she  notes. 
Besides  a  kind  of  lack  of  love  to  her,  i7«> 


170  £par^  §)tuart  [activ. 

Herein  we  have  not  that  particular  care 
Forsooth  of  our  own  safeties,  or  indeed 
Of  the  faith  rather  and  the  general  good, 
That  politic  reason  bids ;  especially. 
Having  so  strong  a  warrant  and  such  ground      175 
For  satisfaction  of  our  consciences 
To  Godward,  and  discharge  of  credit  kept 
And  reputation  toward  the  world,  as  is 
That  oath  whereby  we  stand  associated 
To  prosecute  inexorably  to  death  180 

Both  with  our  joint  and  our  particular  force 
All  by  whose  hand  and  all  on  whose  behalf 
Our  sovereign's  life  is  struck  at :  as  by  proof 
Stands  charged  upon  our  prisoner.   So  they  write. 
As  though  the  queen's  own  will  had  warranted  185 
The  words  that  by  her  will's  authority 
Were  blotted  from  the  bond,  whereby  that  head 
Was  doomed  on  whose  behoof  her  life  should  be 
By  treason  threatened  :  for  she  would  not  have 
Aught  pass  which  grieved    her  subjects'   con- 
sciences, 190 
She  said,  or  might  abide  not  openly 
The  whole  world's  view  :  nor  would  she  any  one 
Were  punished  for  another's  fault :  and  so 
Cut  off  the  plea  whereon  she  now  desires 
That  we  should  dip  our  secret  hands  in  blood     195 
With  no  direction  given  of  her  own  mouth 
So  to  pursue  that  dangerous  head  to  death 


Scene  H]  fl^atl^  ^ttlHrt  1 7 1 

By  whose  assent  her  life  were  sought :  for  this 

Stands  fixed  for  only  warrant  of  such  deed, 

And  this  we  have  not,  but  her  word  instead        200 

She  takes  it  most  unkindly  toward  herself 

That  men  professing  toward  her  loyally 

That  love  that  we  do  should  in  any  sort, 

For  lack  of  our  own  duty's  full  discharge. 

Cast  upon  her  the  burden,  knowing  as  we  205 

Her  slowness  to  shed  blood,  much  more  of  one 

So  near  herself  in  blood  as  is  this  queen, 

And  one  with  her  in  sex  and  quality. 

And  these  respects,  they  find,  or  so  profess, 

Do  greatly  trouble  her :  who  hath  sundry  times  210 

Protested,  they  assure  us,  earnestly. 

That  if  regard  of  her  good  subjects'  risk 

Did  not  more  move  her  than  the  personal  fear 

Of  proper  peril  to  her,  she  never  would 

Be  drawn  to  assent  unto  this  bloodshedding  :      215 

And  so  to  our  good  judgments  they  refer 

These  speeches  they  thought  meet  to  acquaint  us 

with 
As  passed  but  lately  from  her  majesty. 
And  to  God's  guard  commend  us  :  which  God 

knows 
We  should  much  more  need  than  deserve  of  him  220 
Should  we  give  ear  to  this,  and  as  they  bid 
Make  heretics  of  these  papers;  which  three  times 
You  see  how  Davison  hath  enforced  on  us  : 


172  £par^  Stuart  [ac^iv. 

But  they  shall  taste  no  fire  for  me,  nor  pass 
Back  to  his  hands  till  copies  writ  of  them  225 

Lie  safe  in  mine  for  sons  of  mine  to  keep 
In  witness  how  their  father  dealt  herein. 

Drury.  You  have  done  the  wiselier  :  and  what 
word  soe'er 
Shall  bid  them  know  your  mind,  I  am  well  as- 
sured 
It  well  may  speak  for  me  too. 

Paul.  Thus  it  shall :    230 

That  having  here  his  letters  in  my  hands, 
I  would  not  fail,  according  to  his  charge, 
To  send  back  answer  with  all  possible  speed 
Which  shall  deliver  unto  him  my  great  grief 
And  bitterness  of  mind,  in  that  I  am  235 

So  much  unhappy  as  I  hold  myself 
To  have  lived  to  look  on  this  unhappy  day, 
When  I  by  plain  direction  am  required 
From  my  most  gracious  sovereign's  mouth  to  do 
An  act  which  God  forbiddeth,  and  the  law.         240 
Hers  are  my  goods  and  livings,  and  my  life. 
Held  at  her  disposition,  and  myself 
Am  ready  so  to  lose  them  this  next  day 
If  it  shall  please  her  so,  acknowledging 
I  hold  them  of  her  mere  goodwill,  and  do  not     245 
Desire  them  to  enjoy  them  but  so  long 
As  her  great  grace  gives  leave :  but  God  forbid 
That  I  should  make  for  any  grace  of  hers 


Scene  H]  ^^ar^  ^tUatt  1 73 

So  foul  a  shipwreck  of  my  conscience,  or 

Leave  ever  to  my  poor  posterity  25° 

So  great  a  blot,  as  privily  to  shed  blood 

With  neither  law  nor  warrant.    So,  in  trust 

That  she,  of  her  accustomed  clemency. 

Will  take  my  dutiful  answer  in  good  part, 

By  his  good  mediation,  as  returned  255 

From  one  who  never  will  be  less  in  love, 

Honour,  obedience,  duty  to  his  queen. 

Than  any  Christian  subject  living,  thus 

To  God's  grace  I  commit  him. 

Drury,  Though  I  doubt 

She  haply  shall  be  much  more  wroth  hereat        260 
Than  lately  she  was  gracious,  when  she  bade 
God  treblefold  reward  you  for  your  charge 
So  well  discharged,  saluting  you  by  name 
Most  faithful  and  most  careful,  you  shall  do 
Most  like  a  wise  man  loyally  to  write  265 

But  such  good  words  as  these,  whereto  myself 
Subscribe   in  heart :    though  being  not  named 

herein 
(Albeit  to  both  seem  these  late  letters  meant) 
Nor  this  directed  to  me,  I  forbear 
To  make  particular  answer.    And  indeed,  270 

Were  danger  less  apparent  in  her  life 
To  the  heart's  life  of  all  this  living  land, 
I  would  this  woman  might  not  die  at  all 
By  secret  stroke  nor  open  sentence. 


1 74  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  iv. 

Paul.  I 

Will  praise  God's  mercy  most  for  this  of  all,      275 
When  I  shall  see  the  murderous  cause  removed 
Of  its  most  mortal  peril :  nor  desire 
A  guerdon  ampler  from  the  queen  we  serve, 
Besides  her  commendations  of  my  faith 
For  spotless  actions  and  for  safe  regards,  280 

Than  to  see  judgment  on  her  enemy  done; 
Which  were  for  me  that  recompense  indeed 
Whereof  she  writes  as  one  not  given  to  all, 
But  for  such  merit  reserved  to  crown  its  claim 
Above  all  common  service  :   nor  save  this  285 

Could  any  treasure's  promise  in  the  world 
So  ease  those  travails  and  rejoice  this  heart 
That  hers  too  much  takes  thought  of,  as  to  read 
Her  charge  to  carry  for  her  sake  in  it 
This  most  just  thought,  that  she  can  balance  not  290 
The  value  that  her  grace  doth  prize  me  at 
In  any  weight  of  judgment :  yet  it  were 
A  word  to  me  more  comfortable  at  heart 
Than  these,  though  these  most  gracious,  that 

should  speak 
Death  to  her  death's  contriver. 

Drury.  Nay,  myself      295 

Were  fain  to  see  this  coil  wound  up,  and  her 
Removed  that  makes  it  :    yet  such  things  will 

pluck 
Hard  at  men's  hearts  that  think  on  them, and  move 


Scene  n]  ^^t^  ^tUUtt  175 

Compassion  that  such  long  strange  years  should 

find 
So  strange  an  end  :   nor  shall  men  ever  say  3°° 

But  she  was  born  right  royal ;   full  of  sins, 
It  may  be,  and  by  circumstance  or  choice 
Dyed  and  defaced  with  bloody  stains  and  black. 
Unmerciful,  unfaithful,  but  of  heart 
So  fiery  high,  so  swift  of  spirit  and  clear,  305 

In  extreme  danger  and  pain  so  lifted  up. 
So  of  all  violent  things  inviolable. 
So  large  of  courage,  so  superb  of  soul, 
So  sheathed  with  iron  mind  invincible 
And  arms  unbreached  of  fireproof  constancy  —  310 
By  shame  not  shaken,  fear  or  force  or  death. 
Change,  or  all  confluence  of  calamities  — 
And  so  at  her  worst  need  beloved,  and  still. 
Naked  of  help  and  honour  when  she  seemed. 
As  other  women  would  be,  and  of  hope  3^5 

Stripped,  still  so  of  herself  adorable 
By  minds  not  always  all  ignobly  mad 
Nor  all  made  poisonous  with  false  grain  of  faith, 
She  shall  be  a  world's  wonder  to  all  time, 
A  deadly  glory  watched  of  marvelling  men  3-0 

Not  without  praise,  not  without  noble  tears. 
And  if  without  what  she  would  never  have 
Who  had  it  never,  pity  —  yet  from  none 
Quite  without  reverence  and  some  kind  of  love 
For  that  which  was  so  royal.    Yea,  and  now       3^5 


176  ^ar^g^tuart  [activ. 

That  at  her  prayer  we  here  attend  on  her. 

If,  as  I  think,  she  have  in  mind  to  send 

Aught  written  to  the  queen,  what  we  may  do 

To  further  her  desire  shall  on  my  part 

Gladly  be  done,  so  be  it  the  grace  she  craves      33° 

Be  nought  akin  to  danger. 

Paul,  It  shall  be 

The  first  of  all  then  craved  by  her  of  man. 
Or  by  man's  service  done  her,  that  was  found 
So  harmless  ever. 

Enter  Mary  Stuart  and  Mary  Beaton, 

Mary  Stuart,       Sirs,  in  time  past  by 
I  was  desirous  many  times,  ye  know,  335 

To  have  written  to  your  queen :  but  since  I  have 

had 
Advertisement  of  my  conviction,  seeing 
I  may  not  look  for  life,  my  soul  is  set 
On  preparation  for  another  world : 
Yet  none  the  less,  not  for  desire  of  life,  34© 

But  for  my  conscience's  discharge  and  rest, 
And  for  my  last  farewell,  I  have  at  heart 
By  you  to  send  her  a  memorial  writ 
Of  somewhat  that  concerns  myself,  when  I 
Shall  presently  be  gone  out  of  this  world.  345 

And  to  remove  from  her,  if  such  be  there. 
Suspicion  of  all  danger  in  receipt 
Of  this  poor  paper  that  should  come  from  me, 
Myself  will  take  the  assay  of  it,  and  so 
With  mine  own  hands  to  yours  deliver  it.  35° 


scENk  n.]  ^ar^  Stuart  1 7  7 

Paul.   Will  you  not  also,  madam,  be  content 
To  seal  and  close  it  in  my  presence  up  ? 

Mary   Stuart.   Sir,  willingly :   but    I  beseech 
your  word 
Pledged  for  its  safe  delivery  to  the  queen. 

Paul.  I  plight  my  faith  it  shall  be  sent  to  her.  355 

Mary  Stuart.  This  further  promise  I  desire, 
you  will 
Procure  me  from  above  certificate 
It  hath  been  there  delivered. 

Drury.  This  is  more 

Than  we  may  stand  so  pledged  for:  in  our  power 
It  is  to  send,  but  far  beyond  our  power,  360 

As  being  above  our  place,  to  promise  you 
Certificate  or  warrant. 

Mary  Stuart.  Yet  I  trust 

Consideration  may  be  had  of  me 
After  my  death,  as  one  derived  in  blood 
From  your  queen's  grandsire,  with  all  mortal  rites  365 
According  with  that  faith  I  have  professed 
All  my  life-days  as  I  was  born  therein. 
This  is  the  sum  of  all  mine  askings  :  whence 
Well  might  I  take  it  in  ill  part  of  you 
To  wish  me  seal  my  letter  in  your  sight,  370 

Bewraying  your  hard  opinion  of  me. 

Paul.  This 

Your  own  words  well  might  put  into  my  mind. 
That  so  beside  my  expectation  made 


178  ^ar^  g>tuart  [activ. 

Proffer  to  take  my  first  assay  for  me 

Of  the  outer  part  of  it :   for  you  must  think        375 

I  was  not  ignorant  that  by  sleight  of  craft 

There  might  be  as  great  danger  so  conveyed 

Within  the  letter  as  without,  and  thus 

I  could  not  for  ill  thoughts  of  you  be  blamed, 

Concurring  with  you  in  this  jealousy  :  380 

For  had  yourself  not  moved  it  of  yourself 

Sir  Drew  nor  I  had  ever  thought  on  it. 

Mary  Stuart.  The  occasion  why  I  moved  it 

was  but  this, 
That  having  made  my  custom  in  time  past 
To  send  sometimes  some  tokens  to  your  queen,  385 
At  one  such  time  that  I  sent  certain  clothes 
One  standing  by  advised  her  cause  my  gifts 
To  be  tried  thoroughly  ere  she  touched  them ; 

which 
I  have  since  observed,  and  taken  order  thus 
With  Nau,  when  last  he  tarried  at  the  court,      390 
To  do  the  like  to  a  fur-fringed  counterpane 
Which  at  that  time  I  sent :   and  as  for  this. 
Look  what  great  danger  lies  between  these  leaves 
That  I  dare  take  and  handle  in  my  hands, 
And  press  against  my  face  each  part  of  them      395 
Held  open  thus,  and  either  deadly  side. 
Wherein  your  fear  smells  death  sown  privily. 
Paul.   Madam,   when   so    you   charged   your 

secretary 


Scene  U]  ^ar^  g^tUHlt  1 79 

Her  majesty  was  far  from  doubt,  I  think, 
Or  dream  of  such  foul  dealing :  and  I  would      400 
Suspicion  since  had  found  no  just  cause  given. 
And  then  things  had  not  been  as  now  they  are. 

Mary  Stuart.  But  things  are  as  they  are,  and 
here  I  stand 
Convicted,  and  not  knowing  how  many  hours 
I  have  to  live  yet. 

Paul.  Madam,  you  shall  live  405 

As  many  hours  as  God  shall  please  :  but  this 
May  be  said  truly,  that  you  here  have  been 
Convicted  in  most  honourable  sort 
And  favourable. 

Mary  Stuart.        What  favour  have  I  found  ? 

Paul.  Your  cause  hath  been  examined  scrupu- 
lously 410 
By  many  our  eldest  nobles  of  this  realm. 
Whereas  by  law  you  should  but  have  been  tried 
By  twelve  men  as  a  common  person. 

Mary  Stuart.  Nay, 

Your  noblemen  must  by  their  peers  be  tried. 

Paul.  All  strangers  of  what  quality  soe'er       4^5 
In  matter  of  crime  are  only  to  be  tried 
In  other  princes'  territories  by  law 
That  in  that  realm  bears  rule. 

Mary  Stuart.  You  have  your  laws  : 

But  other  princes  all  will  think  of  it 
As  they  see  cause ;  and  mine  own  son  is  now   4^° 


i8o  ^ar^  Stuart  [activ. 

No  more  a  child,  but  come  to  man's  estate, 
And  he  will  think  of  these  things  bitterly. 

Drury,  Ingratitude,  whatever  he  think  of  them, 
Is  odious  to  all  persons,  but  of  all 
In  mightiest  personages  most  specially  425 

Most  hateful ;  and  it  will  not  be  denied 
But  that  the  queen's  grace  greatly  hath  deserved 
Both  of  yourself  and  of  your  son. 

Mary  Stuart,  What  boon 

Shall  I  acknowledge  ?    Being  in  bonds,  I  am  set 
Free  from  the  world,  and  therefore  am  I  not      430 
Afraid  to  speak ;  I  have  had  the  favour  here 
To  have  been  kept   prisoner  now  these   many 

years 
Against  my  will  and  justice. 

Paul.  Madam,  this 

Was  a  great  favour,  and  without  this  grace 
You  had  not  lived  to  see  these  days. 

Mary  Stuart.  How  so  ?  435 

Paul.  Seeing  your   own  subjects  did  pursue 
you,  and  had 
The  best  in  your  own  country. 

Mary  Stuart.  That  is  true. 

Because  your  Mildmay's  ill  persuasions  first 
Made  me  discharge  my  forces,  and  then  caused 
Mine  enemies  to  burn  my  friends'  main  holds,   440 
Castles  and  houses. 

Paul.  Howsoe'er,  it  was 


Scene  H.]  ^^ar^  ^tUait  1 8 1 

By  great  men  of  that  country  that  the  queen 
Had  earnest  suit  made  to  her  to  have  yourself 
Delivered  to  them,  which  her  grace  denied, 
And  to  their  great  misliking. 

Drury.  Seventeen  years    445 

She  hath  kept  your  life  to  save  it :  and  whereas 
She  calls  your  highness  sister,  she  hath  dealt 
In  truth  and  deed  most  graciously  with  you 
And  sisterlike,  in  seeking  to  preserve 
Your  life  at  once  and  honour. 

Mary  Stuart.  Ay  !  wherein  ?     450 

Drury.   In   that   commission  of  your  causes 
held 
At  York,  which  was  at  instance  of  your  friends 
Dissolved  to  save  your  honour. 

Afary  Stuart.  No  :  the  cause 

Why  that  commission  was  dissolved  indeed 
Was  that  my  friends  could  not  be  heard  to  in- 
form 455 
Against  my  loud  accusers. 

Paul.  But  your  friend 

The  bishop's  self  of  Ross,  your  very  friend. 
Hath  written  that  this  meeting  was  dismissed 
All  only  in  your  favour :   and  his  book 
Is  extant  :  and  this  favour  is  but  one  460 

Of  many  graces  which  her  majesty 
Hath  for  mere  love  extended  to  you. 

Mary  Stuart.  This 


1 82  ^ar^S^tuarc  [activ. 

Is  one  great  favour,  even  to  have  kept  me  here 
So  many  years  against  my  will. 

Paul.  It  was 

For  your  own  safety,  seeing  your  countrymen    465 
Sought  your  destruction,  and  to  that  swift  end 
Required  to  have  you  yielded  up  to  them, 
As  was  before  said. 

Mary  Stuart.  Nay,  then,  I  will  speak. 

I  am  not  afraid.    It  was  determined  here 
That  I  should  not  depart :  and  when  I  was        47° 
Demanded  by  my  subjects,  this  I  know. 
That  my  lord  treasurer  with  his  own  close  hand 
Writ  in  a  packet  which  by  trustier  hands 
Was  intercepted,  and  to  me  conveyed. 
To  the  earl  of  Murray,  that  the  devil  was  tied   475 
Fast  in  a  chain,  and  they  could  keep  her  not. 
But  here  she  should  be  safely  kept. 

Drury.  That  earl 

Was  even  as  honourable  a  gentleman 
As  I  knew  ever  in  that  country  bred. 

Mary  Stuart.   One  of  the  worst  men  of  the 
world  he  was  :  480 

A  foul  adulterer,  one  of  general  lust, 
A  spoiler  and  a  murderer. 

Drury.  Six  weeks  long, 

As  I  remember,  here  I  saw  him  ;  where 
He  bore  him  very  gravely,  and  maintained 
The  reputation  even  on  all  men's  tongues  485 


Scene  U]  ^^t^  ^tmtt  1 83 

In  all  things  of  a  noble  gentleman : 
Nor  have  I  heard  him  evil  spoken  of 
Till  this  time  ever. 

Mary  Stuart.  Yea,  my  rebels  here 

Are  honest  men,  and  by  the  queen  have  been 
Maintained. 

Paul.  You  greatly  do  forget  yourself        49° 

To  charge  her  highness  with  so  foul  a  fault, 
Which  you  can  never  find  ability 
To  prove  on  her. 

Mary  Stuart.     What  did  she  with  the  French, 
I  pray  you,  at  Newhaven  ? 

Paul.  It  appears 

You  have  conceived  so  hardly  of  the  queen         495 
My  mistress,  that  you  still  inveterately 
Interpret  all  her  actions  to  the  worst, 
Not  knowing  the  truth  of  all  the  cause  :  but  yet 
I  dare  assure  you  that  her  majesty 
Had  most  just  cause  and  righteous,  in  respect      500 
As  well  of  Calais  as  for  other  ends. 
To  do  the  thing  she  did,  and  more  to  have  done 
Had  it  so  pleased  her  to  put  forth  her  power  : 
And  this  is  in  you  great  unthankfulness 
After  so  many  favours  and  so  great,  5^5 

Whereof  you  will  acknowledge  in  no  wise 
The  least  of  any  :  though  her  majesty 
Hath  of  her  own  grace  merely  saved  your  life. 
To  the  utter  discontentment  of  the  best 


1 84  ^ar^g)tuart  [activ. 

Your  subjects  once  in  open  parliament  510 

Who  craved  against  you  justice  on  the  charge 
Of  civil  law-breach  and  rebellion. 

Mary  Stuart.  I 

Know  no  such  matter,  but  full  well  I  know 
Sir  Francis  Walsingham  hath  openly, 
Since  his  abiding  last  in  Scotland,  said  515 

That  I  should  rue  his  entertainment  there. 

Paul,    Madam,  you  have  not  rued  it,  but  have 
been 
More  honourably  entertained  than  ever  yet 
Was  any  other  crown's  competitor 
In  any  realm  save  only  this :  whereof  520 

Some  have  been  kept  close  prisoners,  other  some 
Maimed  and  unnaturally  disfigured,  some 
Murdered. 

Mary  Stuart.  But  I  was  no  competitor  : 

All  I  required  was  in  successive  right 
To  be  reputed  but  as  next  the  crown.  525 

Paul.    Nay,  madam,  you  went  further,  when 
you  gave 
The  English  arms  and  style,  as  though  our  queen 
Had  been  but  an  usurper  on  your  right. 

Mary  Stuart.    My  husband  and  my  kinsmen 
did  therein 
What  they  thought  good  :  I  had  nought  to  do 

with  it.  530 

Paul.  Why  would  you  not  then  loyally  renounce 


Scene  II.]  ^dit^  ^tURtt  1 85 

Your  claim  herein  pretended,  but  with  such 
Condition,  that  you  might  be  authorized 
Next  heir  apparent  to  the  crown  ? 

Afary  Stuart.  I  have  made 

At  sundry  times  thereon  good  proffers,  which     535 
Could  never  be  accepted. 

Paul.  Heretofore 

It  hath  been  proved  unto  you  presently 
That  in  the  very  instant  even  of  all 
Your  treaties  and  most  friendlike  offers  were 
Some  dangerous  crafts  discovered. 

Mary  Stuart.  You  must  think  540 

I  have   some  friends  on  earth,  and  if  they  have 

done 
Anything  privily,  what  is  that  to  me  ? 

Paul.  Madam,  it  was  somewhat  to  you,  and 
I  would 
For  your  own  sake  you  had  forborne  it,  that 
After  advertisement  and  conscience  given  545 

Of  Morgan's  devilish  practice,  to  have  killed 
A  sacred  queen,  you  yet  would  entertain 
The  murderer  as  your  servant. 

Alary  Stuart.  I  might  do  it 

With  as  good  right  as  ever  did  your  queen 
So  entertain  my  rebels. 

Drury.  Be  advised :  55° 

This  speech  is  very  hard,  and  all  the  case 
Here  differs  greatly. 


1 86  ®ar^§)tuart  [activ. 

Mary  Stuart.  Yea,  let  this  then  be ; 

Ye  cannot  yet  of  my  conviction  say 
But  I  by  partial  judgment  was  condemned, 
And  the  commissioners  knew  my  son  could  have  555 
No  right,  were  I  convicted,  and  your  queen 
Could  have  no  children  of  her  womb ;  whereby 
They  might  set  up  what  man  for  king  they  would. 

Paul,  This  is  in  you  too  great  forgetfulness 
Of  honour  and  yourself,  to  charge  these  lords     560 
With  two  so  foul  and  horrible  faults,  as  first 
To  take  your  life  by  partial  doom  from  you. 
And  then  bestow  the  kingdom  where  they  liked. 

Mary  Stuart,  Well,  all  is  one  to  me :  and  for 
my  part 
I  thank  God  I  shall  die  without  regret  565 

Of  anything  that  I  have  done  alive. 

Paul,  I  would  entreat  you  yet  be  sorry  at  least 
For  the  great  wrong,  and  well  deserving  grief, 
You  have  done  the  queen  my  mistress. 

Mary  Stuart.  Nay,  thereon 

Let  others  answer  for  themselves :  I  have  570 

Nothing  to  do  with  it.   Have  you  borne  in  mind 
Those  matters  of  my  monies  that  we  last 
Conferred  upon  together  ? 

Paul.  Madam,  these 

Are  not  forgotten. 

Mary  Stuart.        Well  it  is  if  aught 
Be  yet  at  all  remembered  for  my  good.  575 


Scene  H.]  ^^t^  ^tVLRtt  1 8  J 

Have  here  my  letter  sealed  and  superscribed, 
And  so  farewell  —  or  even  as  here  men  may. 
Exeunt  Paulet  and  Drury. 
Had  I  that  old  strength  in  my  weary  limbs 
That  in  my  heart  yet  fails  not,  fain  would  I 
Fare  forth  if  not  fare  better.  Tired  I  am,  580 

But  not  so  lame  in  spirit  I  might  not  take 
Some  comfort  of  the  winter-wasted  sun 
This  bitter  Christmas  to  me,  though  my  feet 
Were  now  no  firmer  nor  more  hopeful  found 
Than  when  I  went  but  in  my  chair  abroad         585 
Last  weary  June  at  Chartley.    I  can  stand 
And  go  now  without  help  of  either  side. 
And  bend  my  hand  again,  thou  seest,  to  write  : 
I  did  not  well  perchance  in  sight  of  these 
To  have  made  so  much  of  this  lame  hand,  which 

yet  590 

God  knows  was  grievous  to  me,  and  to-day 
To  make  my  letter  up  and  superscribe 
And  seal  it  with  no  outward  show  of  pain 
Before  their  face  and  inquisition ;  yet 
I  care  not  much  in  player's  wise  piteously  595 

To  blind  such  eyes  with  feigning ;   though  this 

Drew 
Be  gentler  and  more  gracious  than  his  mate 
And  liker  to  be  wrought  on ;  but  at  last 
What  need  have  I  of  men  ? 

Mary  Beaton.  What  then  you  may 


1 88  ^ar^  ©tuart  [activ. 

I  know  not,  seeing  for  all  that  was  and  is  600 

We  are  yet  not  at  the  last ;  but  when  you  had, 
You  have  hardly  failed  to  find  more  help  of  them 
And  heartier  service  than  more  prosperous  queens 
Exact  of  expectation  :  when  your  need 
Was  greater  than  your  name  or  natural  state,     605 
And  wage  was  none  to  look  for  but  of  death, 
As  though  the  expectancy  thereof  and  hope 
Were  more  than   man's  prosperities,  men  have 

given 
Heart's  thanks  to  have  this  gift  of  God  and  you 
For  dear  life's  guerdon,  even  the  trust  assured    610 
To  drink  for  you  the  bitterness  of  death. 

Mary  Stuart.  Ay,  one  said  once  it  must  be  — 

some  one  said 
I  must  be  perilous  ever,  and  my  love 
More  deadly  than  my  will  was  evil  or  good 
Toward  any  of  all  these  that  through  me  should 

die  615 

I  know  not  who,  nor  when  one  said  it :  but 
I  know  too  sure  he  lied  not. 

Mary  Beaton,  No  ;  I  think 

This  was  a  seer  indeed.   I  have  heard  of  men 
That  under  imminence  of  death  grew  strong 
With  mortal  foresight,  yet  in  life-days  past  620 

Could  see  no  foot  before  them,  nor  provide 
For  their  own  fate  or  fortune  anything 
Against  one  angry  chance  of  accident 


Scene  IL]  ^ar^  g^tUatt  1 89 

Or  passionate  fault  of  their  own  loves  or  hates 
That  might  to  death  betray  them:   such  an  one 625 
Thus  haply  might  have  prophesied,  and  had 
No  strength  to  save  himself. 

Mary  Stuart.  I  know  not :  yet 

Time  was  when  I  remembered. 

Mary  Beaton.  It  should  be 

No  enemy's  saying  whom  you  remember  not ; 
You  are  wont  not  to  forget  your  enemies ;  yet    630 
The  word  rang  sadder  than  a  friend's  should  fall 
Save  in  some  strange  pass  of  the  spirit  of  flesh 
For  love's  sake  haply  hurt  to  death. 

Mary  Stuart.  It  seems 

Thy  mind  is  bent  to  know  the  name  of  me 
That  of  myself  I  know  not. 

Mary  Beaton.  Nay,  my  mind       635 

Has  other  thoughts  to  beat  upon  :  for  me 
It  may  suffice  to  know  the  saying  for  true 
And  never  care  who  said  it. 

Mary  Stuart.  True  ?  too  sure, 

God  to  mine  heart's  grief  hath  approved  it.  See, 
Nor  Scot  nor  Englishman  that  takes  on  him       640 
The  service  of  my  sorrow  but  partakes 
The  sorrow  of  my  service  :   man  by  man, 
As  that  one  said,  they  perish  of  me :   yea. 
Were  I  a  sword  sent  upon  earth,  or  plague 
Bred  of  aerial  poison,  I  could  be  645 

No  deadlier  where  unwillingly  I  strike, 


1 90  ^ar^  g)tuart  [act  iv. 

Who  where  I  would  can  hurt  not  :   Percy  died 
By  his  own  hand  in  prison,  Howard  by  law, 
These  young  men  with  strange  torments  done  to 

death. 
Who  should  have  rid  me  and  the  world  of  her   650 
That  is  our  scourge,  and  to  the  church  of  God 
A  pestilence  that  wastes  it :   all  the  north 
Wears  yet  the  scars  engraven  of  civil  steel 
Since  its  last  rising :   nay,  she  saith  but  right. 
Mine  enemy,  saying  by  these  her  servile  tongues  655 
I  have  brought  upon  her  land  mine  own  land's 

curse. 
And  a  sword  follows  at  my  heel,  and  fire 
Is  kindled  of  mine  eyeshot :   and  before, 
Whom  did  I  love  that  died  not  of  it  ?   whom 
That  I  would  save  might  I  deliver,  when  660 

I  had  once  but  looked  on  him  with  love,  or  pledged 
Friendship  ?  I  should  have  died  I  think  long  since, 
That  many  might  have  died  not,  and  this  word 
Had  not  been  written  of  me  nor  fulfilled. 
But  perished  in  the  saying,  a  prophecy  665 

That  took  the  prophet  by  the  throat  and  slew  — 
As  sure  I  think  it  slew  him.    Such  a  song 
Might  my  poor  servant  slain  before  my  face 
Have  sung  before  the  stroke  of  violent  death 
Had  fallen  upon  him  there  for  my  sake. 

Mary  Beaton.  Ah !      670 

You  think  so  ?  this  remembrance  was  it  not 


Scene  n.l  ^^t^  ^tmXt  IQI 

That  hung  and  hovered  in  your  mind  but  now, 
Moved  your  heart  backward  all  unwittingly 
To  some  blind  memory  of  the  man  long  dead  ? 

Mary  Stuart.    In  sooth,  I  think  my  prophet 
should  have  been  675 

David. 

Mary  Beaton.  You  thought  of  him  ? 

Mary  Stuart.  An  old  sad  thought : 

The  moan  of  it  was  made  long  since,  and  he 
Not  unremembered. 

Mary  Beaton.  Nay,  of  him  indeed 

Record  was  made  —  a  royal  record  :  whence 
No  marvel  is  it  that  you  forgot  not  him.  680 

Mary  Stuart.    I  would  forget  no  friends  nor 
enemies  :   these 
More  needsmenowremember.  Think'stthou not 
This  woman  hates  me  deadlier  —  or  this  queen 
That  is  not  woman  —  than  myself  could  hate 
Except  I  were  as  she  in  all  things  ?  then  685 

I  should  love  no  such  woman  as  am  I 
Much  more  than  she  may  love  me :  yet  I  am  sure, 
Or  so  near  surety  as  all  belief  may  be, 
She  dare  not  slay  me  for  her  soul's  sake  :  nay. 
Though  that  were  made  as  light  of  as  a  leaf       690 
Storm-shaken,  in  such  stormy  winds  of  state 
As  blow  between  us  like  a  blast  of  death, 
For  her  throne's  sake  she  durst  not,  which  must  be 
Broken  to  build  my  scaffold.    Yet,  God  wot, 


1 9  2  sparry  g^tuart  [act  iv. 

Perchance  a  straw's  weight  now  cast  in  by  chance  695 
Might  weigh  my  Hfe  down  in  the  scale  her  hand 
Holds  hardly  straight  for  trembling :   if  she  be 
Woman  at  all,  so  tempered  naturally 
And  with  such  spirit  and  sense  as  thou  and  I, 
Should  I  for  wrath  so  far  forget  myself  700 

As  these  men  sometime  charge  me  that  I  do, 
My  tongue  might  strike  my  head  ofF.  By  this  head 
That  yet  I  wear  to  swear  by,  if  life  be 
Thankworthy,  God  might  well  be  thanked  for 

this 
Of  me  or  whoso  loves  me  in  the  world,  705 

That  I  spake  never  half  my  heart  out  yet, 
For  any  sore  temptation  of  them  all. 
To  her  or  hers ;   nor  ever  put  but  once 
My  heart  upon  my  paper,  writing  plain 
The  things  I  thought,  heard,  knew  for  truth  of  her,  710 
Believed  or  feigned  —  nay,  feigned  not  to  believe 
Of  her  fierce  follies  fed  with  wry-mouthed  praise. 
And  that  vain  ravin  of  her  sexless  lust 
Which  could  not  feed  nor  hide  its  hunger,  curb 
With  patience  nor  allay  with  love  the  thirst        715 
That  mocked  itself  as  all  mouths  mocked  it.    Ha, 
What  might  the  reading  of  these  truths  have 

wrought 
Within  her  maiden  mind,  what  seed  have  sown, 
Trow'st  thou,  in  her  sweet  spirit,  of  revenge 
Toward  me  that  showed  her  queenship  in  the  glass  720 


Scene  H.]  ^^t^  ^tXlUtt  193 

A  subject's  hand  of  hers  had  put  in  mine 
The  likeness  of  it  loathed  and  laughable 
As  they  that  worshipped  it  with  words  and  signs 
Beheld  her  and  bemocked  her  ? 

Afary  Beaton.  Certainly, 

I  think  that  soul  drew  never  breath  alive  725 

To  whom  this  letter  might  seem  pardonable 
Which  timely  you  forbore  to  send  her. 

Mary  Stuart.  Nay, 

I  doubt  not  I  did  well  to  keep  it  back  — 
And  did  not  ill  to  write  it  :   for  God  knows 
It  was  no  small  ease  to  my  heart. 

Mary  Beaton.  But  say  730 

I  had  not  burnt  it  as  you  bade  me  burn. 
But  kept  it  privily  safe  against  a  need 
That  I  might  haply  sometime  have  of  it  ? 

Mary  Stuart.    What,  to  destroy  me  ? 

Mary  Beaton.  Hardly,  sure,  to  save. 

Mary   Stuart.    Why   shouldst  thou  think  to 
bring  me  to  my  death  ?  735 

Mary  Beaton.  Indeed,  no  man  am  I  that  love 
you;   nor 
Need  I  go  therefore  in  such  fear  of  you 
As  of  my  mortal  danger. 

Mary  Stuart.  On  my  life 

(Long  life  or  short,  with  gentle  or  violent  end, 
I  know  not,  and  would  choose  not,  though  I  might  74° 
So  take  God's  office  on  me),  one  that  heard 


194  ^ar^  Stuart  [activ. 

Would  swear  thy  speech  had  in  it,  and  subtly 

mixed, 
A  savour  as  of  menace,  or  a  sound 
As  of  an  imminent  ill  or  perilous  sense 
Which  was  not  in  thy  meaning. 

Mary  Beaton.  No  :   in  mine    745 

There  lurked  no  treason  ever;  nor  have  you 
Cause  to  think  worse  of  me  than  loyally, 
If  proof  may  be  believed  on  witness. 

Mary  Stuart.  Sure, 

I  think  I  have  not  nor  I  should  not  have  : 
Thy  life  has  been  the  shadow  cast  of  mine,         75° 
A  present  faith  to  serve  my  present  need, 
A  foot  behind  my  footsteps  ;  as  long  since 
In  those  French  dances  that  we  trod,  and  laughed 
The  blithe  way  through  together.    Thou  couldst 

sing 
Then,  and  a  great  while  gone  it  is  by  this  755 

Since  I  heard  song  or  music  :    I  could  now 
Find  in  my  heart  to  bid  thee,  as  the  Jews 
Were  once  bid  sing  in  their  captivity 
One  of  their  songs  of  Sion,  sing  me  now. 
If  one  thou  knowest,  for  love  of  that  far  time,  760 
One  of  our  songs  of  Paris. 

Mary  Beaton.  Give  me  leave 

A  little  to  cast  up  some  wandering  words 
And  gather  back  such  memories  as  may  beat 
About  my  mind  of  such  a  song,  and  yet 


Scene  H.]  ^at^  ^tU^Vt  1 9  5 

I  think  I  might  renew  some  note  long  dumb       765 
That  once  your  ear  allowed  of.  —  (^Jside.)  I  did 

pray, 
Tempt  me  not,  God  :   and  by  her  mouth  again 
He  tempts  me  —  nay,  but  prompts  me,  being 

most  just. 
To  know  by  trial  if  all  remembrance  be 
Dead  as  remorse  or  pity  that  in  birth  77° 

Died,  and  were  childless  in  her :  if  she  quite 
Forget  that  very  swan-song  of  thy  love, 
My  love  that  wast,  my  love  that  wouldst  not  be, 
Let  God  forget  her  now  at  last  as  I 
Remember :   if  she  think  but  one  soft  thought,   775 
Cast  one  poor  word  upon  thee,  God  thereby 
Shall  surely  bid  me  let  her  live :  if  none, 
I  shoot  that  letter  home  and  sting  her  dead. 
God   strengthen    me    to    sing   but  these  words 

through 
Though  I  fall  dumb  at  end  for  ever.    Now  —   780 

She  sings. 
Apres  tant  de  jours,  apres  tant  de  pleurs, 
Soyez  secourable  a  mon  ame  en  peine. 
Voyez  comme  Avril  fait  T  amour  aux  fleurs  j 
Dame  d' amour,  dame  aux  belles  couleurs, 
Dieu  vous  a  fait  belle.  Amour  vous  fait  reine.  7^5 

Rions,  je  t'  en  prie  ;  aimons,  je  le  veux. 

Le  temps  fuit  et  rit  et  ne  revient  guere 

Pour  baiser  le  bout  de  tes  blonds  cheveux. 

Pour  baiser  tes  cils,  ta  bouche  et  tes  yeux  j 

L' amour  n'a  qu'un  jour  aupres  de  sa  mere.  79° 


196  £par^  g^tuart  [activ. 

Mary  Stuart.  Nay,  I  should  once  have  known 
that  song,  thou  say'st, 
And  him  that  sang  it  and  should  now  be  dead : 
Was  it  —  but  his  rang  sweeter  —  was  it  not 
Remy  Belleau  ? 

Mary  Beaton.  (My  letter — here  at  heart  !) 

Aside. 
I  think  it  might  be  —  were  it  better  writ  795 

And  courtlier  phrased,  with  Latin  spice  cast  in, 
And  a  more  tunable  descant. 

Mary  Stuart.  Ay  ;   how  sweet 

Sang  all  the  world  about  those  stars  that  sang 
With  Ronsard  for  the  strong  mid  star  of  all, 
His  bay-bound  head  all  glorious  with  grey  hairs,  800 
Who  sang  my  birth  and  bridal !    When  I  think 
Of  those  French  years,  I  only  seem  to  see 
A  light  of  swords  and  singing,  only  hear 
Laughter  of  love  and  lovely  stress  of  lutes, 
And  in  between  the  passion  of  them  borne  805 

Sound  of  swords  crossing  ever,  as  of  feet 
Dancing,  and  life  and  death  still  equally 
Blithe  and  bright-eyed  from  battle.    Haply  now 
My  sometime  sister,  mad  Queen  Madge,  is  grown 
As  grave  as  I  should  be,  and  wears  at  waist        810 
No  hearts  of  last  year's  lovers  any  more 
Enchased  for  jewels  round  her  girdlestead. 
But  rather  beads  for  penitence  ;  yet  I  doubt 
Time  should  not  more  abash  her  heart  than  mine, 


Scene  III.]  ^dit^  ^tmtt  197 

Who  live  not  heartless  yet.     These  days  like 

those  815 

Have  power  but  for  a  season  given  to  do 
No  more  upon  our  spirits  than  they  may, 
And  what  they  may  we  know  not  till  it  be 
Done,  and  we  need  no  more  take  thought  of  it, 
As  I  no  more  of  death  or  life  to-day.  8zo 

Mary  Beaton,  That  shall  you  surely  need  not. 

Mary  Stuart,  So  I  think. 

Our  keepers  being  departed  :   and  by  these, 
Even  by  the  uncourtlier  as  the  gentler  man, 
I  read  as  in  a  glass  their  queen's  plain  heart. 
And  that  by  her  at  last  I  shall  not  die.  825 

Scene   III.  —  Greenwich  Palace, 
Queen  Elizabeth  and  Davison. 

Elizabeth.  Thou  hast  seen  Lord  Howard  ?    I 
bade  him  send  thee. 

Davison,  Madam, 

But  now  he  came  upon  me  hard  at  hand 
And  by  your  gracious  message  bade  me  in. 

Eliz.  The  day  is  fair  as  April  :  hast  thou  been 
Abroad  this  morning  ?    'T  is  no  winter's  sun  5 

That  makes  these  trees  forget  their  nakedness 
And  all  the  glittering  ground,  as  't  were  in  hope. 
Breathe  laughingly. 

Dav.  Indeed,  the  gracious  air 


198  ^ar^  Stuart  [actw. 

Had  drawn  me  forth  into  the  park,  and  thence 
Comes  my  best  speed  to  attend  upon  your  grace.    10 

Eliz.  My  grace  is  not  so  gracious  as  the  sun 
That  graces  thus  the  late  distempered  air : 
And  you  should  oftener  use  to  walk  abroad, 
Sir,  than  your  custom  is  :   I  would  not  have 
Good  servants  heedless  of  their  natural  health       15 
To  do  me  sickly  service.    It  were  strange 
That  one  twice  bound  as  woman  and  as  queen 
To  care  for  good  men's  lives  and  loyalties 
Should  prove  herself  toward  either  dangerous. 

Dav.  That 

Can  be  no  part  of  any  servant's  fear  20 

Who  lives  for  service  of  your  majesty. 

Eliz.  I  would  not  have  it  be  —  God  else  for- 
bid— 
Who  have  so  loyal  servants  as  I  hold 
All  now  that  bide  about  me  :   for  I  will  not 
Think,  though  such  villainy  once  were  in  men's 

minds,  25 

That  twice  among  mine  English  gentlemen 
Shall  hearts  be  foundso  foul  as  theirs  who  thought, 
When  I  was  horsed  for  hunting,  to  waylay 
And  shoot  me  through  the  back  at  unawares 
With    poisoned     bullets  :    nor,    thou    knowest, 

would  I,  30 

When  this  was  opened  to  me,  take  such  care, 
Ride  so  fenced  round  about  with  iron  guard. 


Scene  m.l  ^Et^  g)tUart  199 

Or  walk  so  warily  as  men  counselled  me 

For  loyal  fear  of  what  thereafter  might 

More  prosperously  be  plotted  :  nay,  God  knows,  35 

I  would  not  hold  on  such  poor  terms  my  life, 

With  such  a  charge  upon  it,  as  to  breathe 

In  dread  of  death  or  treason  till  the  day 

That  they  should  stop  my  trembling  breath,  and 

ease 
The  piteous  heart  that  panted  like  a  slave's  40 

Of  all  vile  fear  for  ever.    So  to  live 
Were  so  much  hatefuller  than  thus  to  die, 
I  do  not  think  that  man  or  woman  draws 
Base  breath  of  life  the  loathsomest  on  earth 
Who  by  such  purchase  of  perpetual  fear  45 

And  deathless  doubt  of  all  in  trust  of  none 
Would  shudderingly  prolong  it. 

Dav.  Even  too  well 

Your  servants  know  that  greatness  of  your  heart 
Which  gives  you  yet  unguarded  to  men's  eyes, 
And  were  unworthier  found  to  serve  or  live  5° 

Than  is  the  unworthiest  of  them,  did  not  this 
Make  all  their  own  hearts  hotter  with  desire 
To  be  the  bulwark  or  the  price  of  yours 
Paid  to  redeem  it  from  the  arrest  of  death. 

Elix.  So  haply  should  they  be  whose  hearts 
beat  true  55 

With  loyal  blood  :  but  whoso  says  they  are 
Is  but  a  loving  liar. 


6o 


200  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  iv. 

Dav.  I  trust  your  grace 

Hath  in  your  own  heart  no  such  doubt  of  them 
As  speaks  in  mockery  through  your  lips. 

Eliz.  By  God, 

I    say   much   less   than   righteous   truth    might 

speak 

Of  their  loud  loves  that  ring  with  emptiness, 
And  hollow-throated  loyalties  whose  heart 
Is  wind  and  clamorous  promise.    Ye  desire. 
With  all  your  souls  ye  swear  that  ye  desire 
The  queen  of  Scots  were  happily  removed,  65 

And  not  a  knave  that  loves  me  will  put  hand 
To  the  enterprise  ye  look  for  only  of  me 
Who  only  would  forbear  it. 

Dav.  If  your  grace 

Be  minded  yet  it  shall  be  done  at  all. 
The  way  that  were  most  honourable  and  just       70 
Were  safest,  sure,  and  best. 

Eli-z.  I  dreamt  last  night 

Our  murderess  there  in  hold  had  tasted  death 
By  execution  of  the  sentence  done 
That  was  pronounced  upon  her ;  and  the  news 
So  stung  my  heart  with  wrath  to  hear  of  it  75 

That  had  I  had  a  sword —  look  to  't,  and  'ware !  — 
I  had  thrust  it  through  thy  body. 

Day.  God  defend  ! 

'T  was  well  I  came  not  in  your  highness'  way 
While  the  hot  mood  was  on  you.    But  indeed 


Scene  III.]  ^Rt^  ^tmtt  201 

I  would  know  soothly  if  your  mind  be  changed  80 
From  its  late  root  of  purpose. 

Eliz,  No,  by  God  : 

But  I  were  fain  it  could  be  somewise  done 
And  leave  the  blame  not  on  me.    And  so  much, 
If  there  were  love  and  honesty  in  one 
Whom  I  held  faithful  and  exact  of  care,  85 

Should  easily  be  performed ;  but  here  I  find 
This  dainty  fellow  so  precise  a  knave 
As  will  take  all  things  dangerous  on  his  tongue 
And  nothing  on  his  hand  :  hot-mouthed  and  large 
In  zeal  to  stuff  mine  ears  with  promises,  90 

But  perjurous  in  performance  :  did  he  not 
Set  hand  among  you  to  the  bond  whereby 
He  is  bound  at  utmost  hazard  of  his  life 
To  do  me  such  a  service  ?    Yet  I  could 
Have  wrought  as  well  without  him,  had  I  wist    95 
Of  this  faint  falsehood  in  his  heart :  there  is 
That  Wingfield  whom   thou   wot'st  of,  would 

have  done 
With  glad  goodwill  what  I  required  of  him, 
And  made  no  Puritan  mouths  on  't. 

Dav.  Madam,  yet 

Far  better  were  it  all  should  but  be  done  100 

By  line  of  law  and  judgment. 

E/iz.  There  be  men 

Wiser  than  thou  that  see  this  otherwise. 

Dav.   All  is  not  wisdom  that  of  wise  men 
comes. 


202  £par^  g)tuart  [act  iv. 

Nor  are  all  eyes  that  search  the  ways  of  state 
Clear  as  a  just  man's  conscience. 

EUz.  Proverbs  !  ha  ?  105 

Who  made  thee  master  of  these  sentences, 
Prime  tongue  of  ethics  and  philosophy  ? 

Dav.   An  honest  heart  to  serve  your  majesty ; 
Nought  else  nor  subtler  in  its  reach  of  wit 
Than  very  simpleness  of  meaning. 

Eliz.  Nay,  "o 

I  do  believe  thee ;  heartily  I  do. 
Did  my  lord  admiral  not  desire  thee  bring 
The  warrant  for  her  execution  ? 

Dav.  Ay, 

Madam ;  here  is  it. 

Eltz.  I  would  it  might  not  be. 

Or  being  so  just  were  yet  not  necessary.  "5 

Art  thou  not  heartily  sorry  —  wouldst  thou  not, 
I  say,  be  sad  —  to  see  me  sign  it  ? 

Dav.  Madam, 

I  grieve  at  any  soul's  mishap  that  lives. 
And  specially  for  shipwreck  of  a  life 
To  you  so  near  allied  :   but  seeing  this  doom      120 
Wrung  forth  from  justice  by  necessity, 
I  had  rather  guilt  should  bleed  than  innocence. 

EUz.  When  I  shall  sign,  take  thou  this  in- 
stantly 
To  the  lord  chancellor ;  see  it  straight  be  sealed 
As  quietly  as  he  may,  not  saying  a  word,  i^S 


Scene  IH.]  ^Ut^  g^tUHtt  203 

That  no  man  come  to  know  it  untimely :  then 
Send  it  to  the  earls  of  Kent  and  Shrewsbury 
Who  are  here  set  down  to  see  this  justice  done  : 
I  would  no  more  be  troubled  with  this  coil 
Till  all  be  through.    But,  for  the  place  of  doom,  130 
The  hall  there  of  the  castle,  in  my  mind, 
Were  fitter  than  the  court  or  open  green. 
And  as  thou  goest  betake  thee  on  thy  way 
To  Walsingham,  where  he  lies  sick  at  home, 
And  let  him  know  what  hath  of  us  been  done  :  135 
Whereof  the  grief,  I  fear  me,  shall  go  near 
To  kill  his  heart  outright. 

Dav.  Your  majesty 

Hath  yet  not  signed  the  warrant. 

Eliz.  Ha  !  God's  blood 

Art  thou  from  tutor  of  philosophy  late 
Grown  counsellor  too  and  more  than  counsellor,  140 
To  appoint  me  where  and  what  this  hand  of 

mine 
Shall  at  thy  beck  obsequiously  subscribe 
And  follow  on  thy  finger  ?    By  God's  death. 
What  if  it  please  me  now  not  sign  at  all  ? 
This  letter  of  my  kinswoman's  last  writ  145 

Hath  more  compulsion  in  it,  and  more  power 
To  enforce  my  pity,  than  a  thousand  tongues 
Dictating  death  against  her  in  mine  ear 
Of  mine  own  vassal  subjects.    Here  but  now 
She  writes  me  she  thanks  God  with  all  her  heart  150 


204  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  iv. 

That  it  hath  pleased  him  by  the  mean  of  me 
To  make  an  end  of  her  life's  pilgrimage, 
Which  hath  been  weary  to  her :  and  doth  not 

ask 
To  see  its  length  drawn  longer,  having  had 
Too  much  experience  of  its  bitterness  :  15s 

But  only  doth  entreat  me,  since  she  may 
Look  for  no  favour  at  their  zealous  hands 
Who  are  first  in  councils  of  my  ministry, 
That  only  I  myself  will  grant  her  prayers  ; 
Whereof  the  first  is,  since  she  cannot  hope         160 
For  English  burial  with  such  Catholic  rites 
As  here  were  used  in  time  of  the  ancient  kings, 
Mine  ancestors  and  hers,  and  since  the  tombs 
Lie  violated  in  Scotland  of  her  sires, 
That  so  soon  ever  as  her  enemies  165 

Shall  with  her  innocent  blood  be  satiated. 
Her  body  by  her  servants  may  be  borne 
To  some  ground  consecrated,  there  to  be 
Interred :  and  rather,  she  desires,  in  France, 
Where  sleep  her  honoured  mother's  ashes;  so    170 
At  length  may  her  poor  body  find  the  rest 
Which  living  it  has  never  known  :   thereto. 
She  prays  me,  from  the  fears  she  hath  of  those 
To  whose  harsh  hand  I  have  abandoned  her. 
She  may  not  secretly  be  done  to  death,  175 

But  in  her  servants'  sight  and  others',  who 
May  witness  her  obedience  kept  and  faith 


Scene  IH.]  ^^J^  ^tVLRVt  205 

To  the  true  church,  and  guard  her  memory  safe 
From  slanders  haply  to  be  blown  abroad 
Concerning  her  by  mouths  of  enemies  :  last,       180 
She  asks  that  her  attendants,  who  so  well 
And  faithfully  through  all  her  miseries  past 
Have  served  her,    may    go    freely  where  they 

please. 
And  lose  not  those  small  legacies  of  hers 
Which  poverty  can  yet  bequeath  to  them.  185 

This  she  conjures  me  by  the  blood  of  Christ, 
Our  kinship,  and  my  grandsire's  memory. 
Who  was  her  father's  grandsire  and  a  king, 
And  by  the  name  of  queen  she  bears  with  her 
Even  to  the  death,  that  I  will  not  refuse,  190 

And  that  a  word  in  mine  own  hand  may  thus 
Assure  her,  who  will  then  as  she  hath  lived 
Die  mine  affectionate  sister  and  prisoner.    See, 
However  she  have  sinned,  what  heart  were  mine, 

if  this 
Drew  no  tears  from  me  :  not  the  meanest  soul  195 
That  lives  most  miserable  but  with  such  words 
Must  needs  draw  down  men's  pity. 

Dav.  Sure  it  is. 

This  queen  hath  skill  of  writing  :   and  her  hand 
Hath  manifold  eloquence  with  various  voice 
To  express  discourse  of  sirens  or  of  snakes,        200 
A  mermaid's  or  a  monster's,  uttering  best 
All  music  or  all  malice.    Here  is  come 


2o6  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  iv. 

A  letter  writ  long  since  of  hers  to  you 

From  Sheffield  Castle,  which  for  shame  or  fear 

She  durst  not  or  she  would  not  thence  despatch,  205 

Sent  secretly  to  me  from  Fotheringay, 

Not  from  her  hand,  but  with  her  own  hand  writ, 

So  foul  of  import  and  malignity 

I  durst  not  for  your  majesty's  respect 

With  its  fierce  infamies  afire  from  hell  aio 

Offend  your  gracious  eyesight :  but  because 

Your  justice  by  your  mercy's  ignorant  hand 

Hath  her  fair  eyes  put  out,  and  walks  now  blind 

Even  by  the  pit's  edge  deathward,  pardon  me 

If  what  you  never  should  have  seen  be  shown    215 

By  hands  that  rather  would  take  fire  in  hand 

Than  lay  in  yours  this  writing. 

Gives  her  a  letter, 
Elix.  By  this  light, 

Whate'er  be  here,  thou  hadst  done  presumptu- 
ously. 
And  Walsingham  thy  principal,  to  keep 
Aught  from  mine  eyes  that  being  to  me  designed  220 
Might  even  with  most  offence  enlighten  them. 
Here  is  her  hand  indeed  ;  and  she  takes  up 

Reading, 
In  gracious  wise  enough  the  charge  imposed 
By  promise  on  her  and  desire  of  ours. 
How  loth  soe'er  she  be,  regretfully  225 

To  bring  such  things  in  question  of  discourse 


Scene  m.]  ^at^  ^tUatt  20; 

Yet  with  no  passion  but  sincerity, 
As  God  shall  witness  her,  declares  to  us 
What  our  good  lady  of  Shrewsbury  said  to  her 
Touching  ourself  in  terms  ensuing  ;   whereto      230 
Answering  she  chid  this  dame  for  such  belief 
And  reprehended  for  licentious  tongue 
To  speak  so  lewdly  of  us  :  which  herself 
Believes  not,  knowing  the  woman's  natural  heart 
And  evil  will  as  then  to  usward.    Here  235 

She  writes  no  more  than  I  would  well  believe 
Of  her  as  of  the  countess.    Ha  ! 

Dav,  Your  grace 

Shall  but  defile  and  vex  your  eyes  and  heart 
To  read  these  villainies  through. 

Eliz.  God's  death,  man  !   peace  : 

Thou  wert  not  best  incense  me  toward  thine  own,  240 
Whose  eyes  have  been  before  me  in  them.  What! 
Was  she  not  mad  to  write  this  ?    One  that  had 
Tour  promise  —  lay  with  you  times  numberless  — 
All  license  and  all  privateness  that  may 
Be  used  of  wife  and  husband  !  yea,  of  her  245 

And  more  dead  men  than  shame  remembers.  God 
Shall  stand  her  witness  —  with  the  devil  of  hell 
For  sponsor  to  her  vows,  whose  spirit  in  her 
Begot  himself  this  issue.    Ha,  the  duke! 
—  Nay,  God  shall  give  me  patience  —  and  his 

knave,  ^5° 

And  Hatton  —  God  have  mercy  !  nay,  but  hate, 


2o8  gpar^  g^tuart  [act  iv. 

Hate  and  constraint  and  rage  have  wrecked  her 

wits, 
And  continence  of  life  cut  off  from  lust, 
—  This  common  stale  of  Scotland,  that  has  tried 
The  sins  of  three  rank  nations,  and  consumed    255 
Their  veins  whose  life  she  took  not  —  Italy, 
France  that  put  half  this  poison  in  her  blood. 
And  her  own  kingdom  that  being  sick  therewith 
Vomited  out  on  ours  the  venomous  thing 
Whose  head  we  set  not  foot  on  —  but  may  God  260 
Make  my  fame  fouler  through  the  world  than  hers 
And  ranker  in  men's  record,  if  I  spare 
The  she-wolf  that  I  saved,  the  woman-beast. 
Wolf-woman  —  how  the  Latin  rings  we  know. 
And  what  lewd  lair  first  reared  her,  and  whose 

hand  265 

Writ  broad  across  the  Louvre  and  Holyrood 
Lupanar  —  but  no  brothel  ever  bred 
Or  breathed  so  rank  a  soul's  infection,  spawned 
Or  spat  such  foulness  in  God's  face  and  man's 
Or  festered  in  such  falsehood  as  her  breath         270 
Strikes  honour  sick  with,  and  the  spirit  of  shame 
Dead  as  her  fang  shall  strike  herself,  and  send 
The  serpent  that  corruption  calls  her  soul 
To  vie  strange  venoms  with  the  worm  of  hell 
And  make  the  face  of  darkness  and  the  grave      275 
Blush  hotter  with  the  fires  wherein  that  soul 
Sinks  deeper  than  damnation. 


Scene  HI.]  ^at^  ^tXX^tt  209 

Day.  Let  your  grace 

Think  only  that  but  now  the  thing  is  known 
And  self-discovered  which  too  long  your  love 
Too  dangerously  hath  cherished;  and  forget        280 
All  but  that  end  which  yet  remains  for  her, 
That  right  by  pity  be  not  overcome. 

Eliz.  God  pity  so  my  soul  as  I  do  right, 
And  show  me  no  more  grace  alive  or  dead 
Than  I  do  justice  here.    Give  me  again  285 

That  warrant  I  put  by,  being  foolish  :  yea. 
Thy  word   spake  sooth  —  my  soul's  eyes  were 

put  out  — 
I  could  not  see  for  pity.    Thou  didst  well  — 
I  am  bounden  to  thee  heartily  —  to  cure 
My  sight  of  this  distemper,  and  my  soul.  19° 

Here  in  God's  sight  I  set  mine  hand,  who  thought 
Never  to  take  this  thing  upon  it,  nor 
Do  God  so  bitter  service.    Take  this  hence  : 
And  let  me  see  no  word  nor  hear  of  her 
Till  the  sun  see  not  such  a  soul  ahve.  *95 


END    OF    THE    FOURTH    ACT 


ACT   V 
MARY   STUART 


ACT  V. 

Scene  I.  — Mary's  Chamber  in  Father ingay  Castle. 

Mary  Stuart  and  Mary  Beaton, 

Mary  Stuart  (sings). 

O  Lord  my  God, 

I  have  trusted  in  thee  j 
O  Jesu  my  dearest  one. 

Now  set  me  free. 
In  prison's  oppression, 
In  sorrow's  obsession, 

I  weary  for  thee. 
With  sighing  and  crying 
Bowed  down  as  dying, 
I  adore  thee,  I  implore  thee,  set  me  free  ! 

Free  are  the  dead :  yet  fain  I  would  have  had 

Once,  before  all  captivity  find  end, 

Some  breath  of  freedom  living.   These  that  come, 

I  think,  with  no  such  message,  must  not  find. 

For  all  this  lameness  of  my  limbs,  a  heart 

As  maimed  in  me  with  sickness.    Three  years 

gone 
When    last  I  parted  from    the   earl   marshal's 

charge, 
I  did  not  think  to  see  his  face  again 
Turned  on  me  as  his  prisoner.    Now  his  wife 
Will  take  no  jealousy  more  to  hear  of  it. 


214  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  v. 

I  trust,  albeit  we  meet  not  as  unfriends, 

If  it  be  mortal  news  he  brings  me.    Go, 

If  I  seem  ready,  as  meseems  I  should. 

And  well  arrayed  to  bear  myself  indeed 

None  otherwise  than  queenlike  in  their  sight,       25 

Bid  them  come  in.  Exit  Mary  Beaton, 

I  cannot  tell  at  last 
If  it  be  fear  or  hope  that  should  expect 
Death  :   I  have  had  enough  of  hope,  and  fear 
Was  none  of  my  familiars  while  I  lived 
Such  life  as  had  more  pleasant  things  to  lose         30 
Than  death  or  life  may  now  divide  me  from. 
'Tis  not  so  much  to  look  upon  the  sun 
With  eyes  that  may  not  lead  us  where  we  will. 
And  halt  behind  the  footless  flight  of  hope 
With  feet  that  may  not  follow  :  nor  were  aught  35 
So  much,  of  all  things  life  may  think  to  have. 
That  one  not  cowardly  born  should  find  it  worth 
The  purchase  of  so  base  a  price  as  this, 
To  stand  self-shamed  as  coward.   I  do  not  think 
This  is  mine  end  that  comes  upon  me  :  but  40 

I  had  liefer  far  it  were  than,  were  it  not. 
That  ever  I  should  fear  it. 

Enter  Kent,  Shrewsbury,  Beak,  and  Sheriff, 
Sirs,  good  day : 
With  such  good  heart  as  prisoners  have,  I  bid 
You  and  your  message  welcome. 

Kent,  Madam,  this 


Scene  I.]  ^^t^  ^tUait  2 1 5 

The  secretary  of  the  council  here  hath  charge     45 
To  read  as  their  commission. 

Alary  Stuart.  Let  me  hear 

In  as  brief  wise  as  may  beseem  the  time 
The  purport  of  it. 

Beale.  Our  commission  here 

Given  by  the  council  under  the  great  seal 
Pronounces  on  your  head  for  present  doom  5° 

Death,  by  this  written  sentence. 

Mary  Stuart.  Ay,  my  lords  ? 

May  I  believe  this,  and  not  hold  myself 
Mocked  as  a  child  with  shadows  ?    In  God's 

name, 
Speak  you,  my  lord  of  Shrewsbury  :  let  me  know 
If  this  be  dream  or  waking. 

Kent.  Verily,  55 

No  dream  it  is,  nor  dreamers  we  that  pray, 
Madam,  you  meetly  would  prepare  yourself 
To  stand  before  God's  judgment  presently. 

Mary  Stuart.    I  had  rather  so  than  ever  stand 
again 
Before  the  face  of  man's.    Why  speak  not  you,  60 
To  whom  I  speak,  my  lord  earl  marshal  ?    Nay, 
Look  not  so  heavily  :   by  my  life,  he  stands 
As  one  at  point  to  weep.    Why,  good  my  lord, 
To  know  that  none  may  swear  by  Mary's  life 
And  hope  again  to  find  belief  of  man  65 

Upon  so  slight  a  warrant,  should  not  bring 


2i6  ®ar^  Stuart  [actv. 

This  trouble  on  your  eyes  ;  look  up,  and  say 
The  word  you  have  for  her  that  never  was 
Less  than  your  friend,  and  prisoner. 

Shrewsbury.  None  save  this, 

Which  willingly  I  would  not  speak,  I  may ;         70 
That  presently  your  time  is  come  to  die. 

Mary  Stuart.    Why,  then,  I  am  well  content 

to  leave  a  world 
Wherein  I  am  no  more  serviceable  at  all 
To  God  or  man,  and  have  therein  so  long 
Endured  so  much  affliction.    All  my  life  75 

I  have  ever  earnestly  desired  the  love 
And  friendship  of  your  queen  ;  have  warned  her 

oft 
Of  coming  dangers  ;  and  have  cherished  long 
The  wish  that  I  but  once  might  speak  with  her 
In  plain-souled  confidence  ;  being  well  assured,  80 
Had  we  but  once  met,  there  an  end  had  been 
Of  jealousies  between  us:   but  our  foes. 
With  equal  wrong  toward  either,  treacherously 
Have  kept  us  still  in  sunder :  by  whose  craft 
And  crooked  policy  hath  my  sister's  crown  85 

Fallen  in  great  peril,  and  myself  have  been 
Imprisoned,  and  inveterately  maligned. 
And  here  must  now  be  murdered.    But  I  know 
That  only  for  my  faith's  sake  I  must  die. 
And  this  to  know  for  truth  is  recompense  9° 

As  large  as  all  my  sufferings.    For  the  crime 


Scene  L]  ^Ht^  ^tUatt  2 1 7 

Wherewith  I  am  charged,  upon  this  holy  book 
I  lay  mine  hand  for  witness  of  my  plea, 
I  am  wholly  ignorant  of  it ;  and  solemnly 
Declare  that  never  yet  conspiracy  95 

Devised  against  the  queen  my  sister's  life 
Took  instigation  or  assent  from  me. 

Kent.  You  swear  but  on  a  popish  Testament : 
Such  oaths  are  all  as  worthless  as  the  book. 

Mary  Stuart.    I  swear  upon  the  book  wherein 
I  trust  :  100 

Would  you  give  rather  credit  to  mine  oath 
Sworn  on  your  scriptures  that  I  trust  not  in  ? 

Kent.  Madam,  I  fain  would  have  you  heartily 
Renounce  your  superstition  ;  toward  which  end 
With  us  the  godly  dean  of  Peterborough,  105 

Good  Richard  Fletcher,  well  approved  for  faith 
Of  God  and  of  the  queen,  is  hither  come 
To  proffer  you  his  prayerful  ministry. 

Mary  Stuart.    If  you,  my  lords,  or  he  will 
pray  for  me, 
I  shall  be  thankful  for  your  prayers  ;  but  may  not  no 
With  theirs  that  hold  another  faith  mix  mine. 
I  pray  you  therefore  that  mine  almoner  may 
Have  leave  to  attend  on  me,  that  from  his  hands 
I,  having  made  confession,  may  receive 
The  sacrament. 

Kent.  We  may  not  grant  you  this.       115 

Mary  Stuart.    I  shall  not  see  my  chaplain  ere 
I  die  ? 


2i8  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  v. 

But  two  months  gone  this  grace  was  granted  me 
By  word  expressly  from  your  queen,  to  have 
Again  his  ministration  :   and  at  last 
In  the  utter  hour  and  bitter  strait  of  death  120 

Is  this  denied  me  ? 

Kent.  Madam,  for  your  soul 

More  meet  it  were  to  cast  these  mummeries  out 
And  bear  Christ  only  in  your  heart,  than  serve 
With  ceremonies  of  ritual  hand  and  tongue 
His  mere  idolatrous  likeness. 

Mary  Stuart.  This  were  strange  125 

That  I  should  bear  him  visible  in  my  hand 
Or  keep  with  lips  and  knees  his  titular  rites 
And  cast  in  heart  no  thought  upon  him.    Nay, 
Put  me,  I  pray,  to  no  more  argument : 
But  if  this  least  thing  be  not  granted,  yet  130 

Grant  me  to  know  the  season  of  my  death. 

Shrews.    At   eight  by   dawn  to-morrow  you 
must  die. 

Mary  Stuart.    So  shall  I  hardly  see  the  sun 
again. 
By  dawn  to-morrow  ?   meanest  men  condemned 
Give  not  their  lives'  breath  up  so  suddenly  :        135 
Howbeit,  I  had  rather  yield  you  thanks,  who 

make 
Such  brief  end  of  the  bitterness  of  death 
For  me  who  have  borne  such  bitter  length  of  life, 
Than  plead  with  protestation  of  appeal 


i 


Scene  L]  ^Ht^  ^tmtt  2 1 9 

For  half  a  piteous  hour's  remission  :  nor  140 

Henceforward  shall  I  be  denied  of  man 

Aught,  who  may  never  now  crave  aught  again 

But  whence  is  no  denial.    Yet  shall  this 

Not  easily  be  believed  of  men,  nor  find 

In  foreign  ears  acceptance,  that  a  queen  145 

Should  be  thrust  out  of  life  thus.     Good  my 

friend, 
Bid  my  physician  Gorion  come  to  me  : 
I   have  to   speak   with    him — sirs,  with    your 

leave  — 
Of  certain  monies  due  to  me  in  France. 
What,  shall  I  twice  desire  your  leave,  my  lords,  150 
To  live  these  poor  last  hours  of  mine  alive 
At  peace  among  my  friends  ?    I  have  much  to  do, 
And  little  time  wherein  to  do  it  is  left. 

Shrews,  (to  Kent  apart).    I  pray  she  may  not 
mean  worse  than  I  would 
Against  herself  ere  morning. 

Kent.  Let  not  then  155 

This  French  knave's  drugs  come  near  her,  nor 

himself: 
We  will  take  order  for  it. 

Shrews.  Nay,  this  were  but 

To  exasperate  more  her  thwarted  heart,  and  make 
Despair  more  desperate  than  itself.    Pray  God 
She  be  not  minded  to  compel  us  put  160 

Force  at  the  last  upon  her  of  men's  hands 


220  £par^  Stuart  [act  v. 

To  hale  her  violently  to  death,  and  make 
Judgment  look  foul  and  fierce  as  murder's  face 
With  stain  of  strife  and  passion. 

Exeunt  all  but  Mary  Stuart  and  Mary  Beaton. 
Mary  Stuart.  So,  my  friend, 

The  last  of  all  our  Maries  are  you  left  165 

To-morrow.    Strange  has  been  my  life,  and  now 
Strange  looks  my  death  upon  me  :  yet,  albeit 
Nor  the  hour  nor  manner  of  it  be  mine  to  choose 
Ours  is  it  yet,  and  all  men's  in  the  world, 
To  make  death  welcome  in  what  wise  we  will.  17° 
Bid  you  my  chaplain,  though  he  see  me  not. 
Watch   through   the   night    and    pray    for   me : 

perchance. 
When  ere  the  sundawn  they  shall  bring  me  forth, 
I  may  behold  him,  and  upon  my  knees 
Receive  his  blessing.    Let  our  supper  be  175 

Served  earlier  in  than  wont  was  :  whereunto 
I  bid  my  true  poor  servants  here,  to  take 
Farewell  and  drink  at  parting  to  them  all 
The  cup  of  my  last  kindness,  in  good  hope 
They  shall  stand  alway  constant  in  their  faith     180 
And  dwell  in  peace  together :  thereupon 
What  little  store  is  left  me  will  I  share 
Among  them,  and  between  my  girls  divide 
My  wardrobe  and  my  jewels  severally. 
Reserving  but  the  black  robe  and  the  red  185 

That  shall  attire  me  for  my  death  :  and  last 


Scene!.]  ^31^  g)tUart  221 

With  mine  own  hand  shall  be  my  will  writ  out 

And  all  memorials  more  set  down  therein 

That  I  would  leave  for  legacies  of  love 

To  my  next  kinsmen  and  my  household  folk.     190 

And  to  the  king  my  brother  yet  of  France 

Must  I  write  briefly,  but  a  word  to  say 

I  am  innocent  of  the  charge  whereon  I  die 

Now  for  my  right's  sake  claimed  upon  this  crown, 

And  our  true  faith's  sake,  but  am  barred  from  sight  195 

Even  of  mine  almoner  here,  though  hard  at  hand  ; 

And  I  would  bid  him  take  upon  his  charge 

The  keeping  of  my  servants,  as  I  think 

He  shall  not  for  compassionate  shame  refuse 

Albeit  his  life  be  softer  than  his  heart ;  200 

And  in  religion  for  a  queen's  soul  pray 

That  once  was  styled  Most  Christian,  and  is  now 

In  the  true  faith  about  to  die,  deprived 

Of  all  her  past  possessions.    But  this  most 

And  first  behoves  it,  that  the  king  of  Spain         205 

By  Gorion's  word  of  mouth  receive  my  heart, 

Who  soon  shall  stand  before  him.   Bid  the  leech 

Come  hither,  and  alone,  to  speak  with  me. 

Exit  Mary  Beaton. 
She  is  dumb  as  death  :  yet  never  in  her  life 
Hath  she  been  quick  of  tongue.  For  all  the  rest,  210 
Poor  souls,  how  well  they  love  me,  all  as  well 
I  think  I  know  :  and  one  of  them  or  twain 
At  least  may  surely  see  me  to  my  death 


222  ^ar^  g>tuarc  [actv. 

Ere  twice  the  hours  have  changed  again.    Per- 
chance 
Love  that  can  weep  not  would  the  gladlier  die    215 
For  those  it  cannot  weep  on.   Time  wears  thin  : 
They  should  not  now    play  laggard  :   nay,  he 

comes, 
The  last  that  ever  speaks  alone  with  me 
Before  my  soul  shall  speak  alone  with  God. 

Enter  Gorion. 
I  have  sent  once  more  for  you  to  no  such  end     220 
As  sick  men  for  physicians  :  no  strong  drug 
May  put  the  death  next  morning  twelve  hours 

back 
Whose  twilight  overshadows  me,  that  am 
Nor  sick  nor  medicinable.  Let  me  know 
If  I  may  lay  the  last  of  all  my  trust  225 

On  you  that  ever  shall  be  laid  on  man 
To  prove  him  kind  and  loyal. 

Gorion.  So  may  God 

Deal  with  me,  madam,  as  I  prove  to  you 
Faithful,  though  none  but  I  were  in  the  world 
That  you  might  trust  beside. 

Mary  Stuart.  With  equal  heart  230 

Do  I  believe  and  thank  you.   I  would  send 
To  Paris  for  the  ambassador  from  Spain 
This  letter  with  two  diamonds,  which  your  craft 
For  me  must  cover  from  men's  thievish  eyes 
Where  they  may  be  not  looked  for. 


Scene  I]  ^31^  ^tXintt  223 

Gor,  Easily  235 

Within  some  molten  drug  may  these  be  hid. 
And  faithfully  by  me  conveyed  to  him. 

Mary  Stuart.    The  lesser    of  them  shall  he 
keep  in  sign 
Of  my  good  friendship  toward  himself:  but  this 
In  token  to  King  Philip  shall  he  give  240 

That  for  the  truth  I  die,  and  dying  commend 
To  him  my  friends  and  servants,  Gilbert  Curie, 
His  sister,  and  Jane  Kennedy,  who  shall 
To-night  watch  by  me ;  and  my  ladies  all 
That  have  endured  my  prison  :  let  him  not         245 
Forget  from  his  good  favour  one  of  these 
That  I  remember  to  him  :   Charles  Arundel, 
And  either  banished  Paget ;  one  whose  heart 
Was  better  toward  my  service  than  his  hand, 
Morgan  :  and  of  mine  exiles  for  their  faith,         250 
The  prelates  first  of  Glasgow  and  of  Ross ; 
And  Liggons  and  Throgmorton,  that  have  lost 
For  me  their  leave  to  live  on  English  earth ; 
And  Westmoreland,  that  lives  now  more  forlorn 
Than  died  that  earl  who  rose  for  me  with  him.    255 
These  I  beseech  him  favour  for  my  sake 
Still :   and  forget  not,  if  he  come  again 
To  rule  as  king  in  England,  one  of  them 
That  were  mine  enemies  here:  the  treasurer  first. 
And  Leicester,  Walsingham,  and  Huntingdon,  260 
At  Tutbury  once  my  foe,  fifteen  years  gone. 


224  ^ar^  g>tuart  [act  v. 

And  Wade  that  spied  upon  me  three  years  since, 

And  Paulet  here  my  gaoler :   set  them  down 

For  him  to  wreak  wrath's  utmost  justice  on. 

In  my  revenge  remembered.    Though  I  be  ^65 

Dead,  let  him  not  forsake  his  hope  to  reign 

Upon  this  people  :   with  my  last  breath  left 

I  make  this  last  prayer  to  him,  that  not  the  less 

He  will  maintain  the  invasion  yet  designed 

Of  us  before  on  England  :  let  him  think,  270 

It  is  God's  quarrel,  and  on  earth  a  cause 

Well  worthy  of  his  greatness  :  which  being  won. 

Let  him  forget  no  man  of  these  nor  me. 

And  now  will  I  lie  down,  that  four  hours*  sleep 

May  give  me  strength  before  I  sleep  again  275 

And  need  take  never  thought  for  waking  more. 

Scene   II.  —  The  Presence  Chamber. 

Shrewsbury^  Kent,  Paulet,  Drury,  Melvilky  and 
Attendants. 

Kent.  The  stroke  is  past  of  eight. 
Shrewsbury.  Not  far,  my  lord. 

Kent.  What  stays  the  provost  and  the  sheriff 
yet 
That  went  ere  this  to  bring  the  prisoner  forth  ? 
What,  are  her  doors  locked  inwards  ?  then  per- 
chance 
Our  last  night's  auguries  of  some  close  design       5 


Scene  n.]  ^Ht^  g^tUait  225 

By  death  contrived  of  her  self-slaughterous  hand 
To  baffle  death  by  justice  hit  but  right 
The  heart  of  her  bad  purpose. 

Shrews.  Fear  it  not  : 

See  where  she  comes,  a  queenlier  thing  to  see 
Than  whom  such  thoughts  take  hold  on. 
Enter  Mary  Stuart y  led  by  two  gentlemen  and  preceded 

by  the  Sheriff ;    Mary  Beatony  Barbara  Mowbray y 

and  other  ladies  behindy  who  remain  in  the  doorway. 

Melville  (kneeling  to  Mary).  Woe  am  I,   lo 

Madam,  that  I  must  bear  to  Scotland  back 
Such  tidings  watered  with  such  tears  as  these. 

Mary  Stuart.  Weep  not, good  Melville:  rather 
should  your  heart 
Rejoice  that  here  an  end  is  come  at  last 
Of  Mary  Stuart's  long  sorrows;   for  be  sure  15 

That  all  this  world  is  only  vanity. 
And  this  record  I  pray  you  make  of  me, 
That  a  true  woman  to  my  faith  I  die. 
And  true  to  Scotland  and  to  France  :   but  God 
Forgive  them  that  have  long  desired  mine  end     20 
And  with  false  tongues  have  thirsted  for  my  blood 
As  the  hart  thirsteth  for  the  water-brooks. 
O  God,  who  art  truth,  and  the  author  of  all  truth. 
Thou  knowest  the  extreme  recesses  of  my  heart. 
And  how  that  I  was  willing  all  my  days  25 

That    England    should    with    Scotland   be  fast 
friends. 


226  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  v. 

Commend  me  to  my  son  :  tell  him  that  I 
Have  nothing  done  to  prejudice  his  rights 
As  king  :  and  now,  good  Melville,  fare  thee  well. 
My  lord  of  Kent,  whence  comes  it  that  your 

charge 
Hath  bidden  back  my  women  there  at  door 
Who  fain  to  the  end  would  bear  me  company  ? 

Kent.  Madam,  this  were  not  seemly  nor  dis- 
creet. 
That  these  should  so  have  leave  to  vex  men's  ears 
With  cries  and  loose  lamentings  :   haply  too 
They  might  in  superstition  seek  to  dip 
Their  handkerchiefs  for  relics  in  your  blood. 

Mary  Stuart.    That  will  I   pledge   my  word 
they  shall  not.  Nay, 
The  queen  would  surely  not  deny  me  this. 
The  poor  last  thing  that  I  shall  ask  on  earth. 
Even  a  far  meaner  person  dying  I  think 
She  would  not  have  so  handled.    Sir,  you  know 
I  am  her  cousin,  of  her  grandsire's  blood, 
A  queen  of  France  by  marriage,  and  by  birth 
Anointed  queen  of  Scotland.   My  poor  girls 
Desire  no  more  than  but  to  see  me  die. 

Shrews.   Madam,  you  have  leave  to  elect  of 
this  your  train 
Two  ladies  with  four  men  to  go  with  you. 

Mary  Stuart,  I  choose  from  forth  my  Scot- 
tish following  here 


Scene  n.]  ^UV^  ^tXlditt  227 

Jane  Kennedy,  with  Elspeth  Curie :  of  men,       50 
Bourgoin  and  Gorion  shall  attend  on  me, 
Gervais  and  Didier.   Come  then,  let  us  go. 

Exemit :  manent  Mary  Beaton  and  Barbara 
Mowbray. 

Barbara.  I  wist  I  was  not  worthy,  though  my 
child 
It  is  that  her  own  hands  made  Christian :  but 
I  deemed  she  should  have  bid  you  go  with  her.     55 
Alas,  and  would  not  all  we  die  with  her  ? 

Mary  Beaton.   Why,  from  the  gallery  here  at 
hand  your  eyes 
May  go  with  her  along  the  hall  beneath 
Even  to  the  scaffold  :  and  I  fain  would  hear 
What  fain  I  would  not  look  on.   Pray  you,  then,  60 
If  you  may  bear  to  see  it  as  those  below. 
Do  me  that  sad  good  service  of  your  eyes 
For  mine  to  look  upon  it,  and  declare 
All  that  till  all  be  done  I  will  not  see ; 
I  pray  you  of  your  pity. 

Barb.  Though  mine  heart       65 

Break,  it  shall  not  for  fear  forsake  the  sight 
That  may  be  faithful  yet  in  following  her, 
Nor  yet  for  grief  refuse  your  prayer,  being  fain 
To  give  your  love  such  bitter  comfort,  who 
So  long  have  never  left  her. 

Mary  Beaton.  Till  she  die  —  70 

I  have  ever  known  I  shall  not  till  she  die. 


228  ^ar^  g>cuart  [act  v. 

See  you  yet  aught  ?  if  I  hear  spoken  words, 
My  heart  can  better  bear  these  pulses,  else 
Unbearable,  that  rend  it. 

Barb.  Yea,  I  see 

Stand  in  mid  hall  the  scaffold,  black  as  death,       7S 
And  black  the  block  upon  it :   all  around. 
Against  the  throng  a  guard  of  halberdiers  ; 
And  the  axe  against  the  scaffold-rail  reclined 
And  two  men  masked  on  either  hand  beyond  : 
And  hard  behind  the  block  a  cushion  set,  80 

Black,  as  the  chair  behind  it. 

Mary  Beaton.  When  I  saw 

Fallen  on  the  scaffold  once  a  young  man's  head, 
Such  things  as  these  I  saw  not.    Nay,  but  on : 
I   knew  not  that   I   spake  :    and   toward    your 

ears 
Indeed  I  spake  not. 

Barb.  All  those  faces  change;  85 

She  comes  more  royally  than  ever  yet 
Fell  foot  of  man  triumphant  on  this  earth, 
Imperial  more  than  empire  made  her,  born 
Enthroned  as  queen  sat  never.    Not  a  line 
Stirs  of  her  sovereign  feature  :  like  a  bride  90 

Brought  home  she  mounts  the  scaffold  ;  and  her 

eyes 
Sweep  regal  round  the  cirque  beneath,  and  rest, 
Subsiding  with  a  smile.    She  sits,  and  they, 
The  doomsmen  earls,  beside  her  ;  at  her  left 


Scene  n.]  ^at^  ^tUHtt  229 

The  sheriff,  and  the  clerk  at  hand  on  high,  95 

To  read  the  warrant. 

Mary  Beaton.     None  stands  there  but  knows 
What  things  therein  are  writ  against  her :   God 
Knows  what  therein  is  writ  not.    God  forgive 
All. 

Barh.    Not  a  face  there  breathes  of  all  the 
throng 
But  is  more  moved  than  hers  to  hear  this  read,  100 
Whose  look  alone  is  changed  not. 

Mary  Beaton.  Once  I  knew 

A  face  that  changed  not  in  as  dire  an  hour 
More  than  the  queen's  face  changes.    Hath  he  not 
Ended  ? 

Barh.      You  cannot  hear  them  speak  below  : 
Come  near  and  hearken  ;  bid  not  me  repeat        105 
All. 

Mary  Beaton.    I  beseech  you  —  for  I  may  not 
come. 

Barh.    Now  speaks  Lord  Shrewsbury  but  a 
word  or  twain, 
And  brieflier  yet  she  answers,  and  stands  up 
As  though  to  kneel,  and  pray. 

Mary  Beaton.  I  too  have  prayed  — 

God  hear  at  last  her  prayers  not  less  than  mine,  no 
Which  failed  not,  sure,  of  hearing. 

Barh.  Now  draws  nigh 

That  heretic  priest,  and  bows  himself,  and  thrice 


230  ^ai^g)tuart  [act  v. 

Strives,  as  a  man  that  sleeps  in  pain,  to  speak. 
Stammering  :   she  waves  him  by,  as  one  whose 

prayers 
She  knows  may  nought  avail  her :  now  she  kneels,  1 1 5 
And  the  earls  rebuke  her,  and  she  answers  not. 
Kneeling.    O  Christ,  whose  likeness  there  en- 
graved 
She  strikes  against  her  bosom,  hear  her !  Now 
That  priest  lifts  up  his  voice  against  her  prayer. 
Praying  :  and  a  voice  all  round  goes  up  with  his:  120 
But  hers  is  lift  up  higher  than  climbs  their  cry, 
In  the  great  psalms  of  penitence  ;  and  now 
She  prays  aloud  in  English  ;   for  the  Pope 
Our  father,  and  his  church ;  and  for  her  son. 
And  for  the  queen  her  murderess  ;  and  that  God  125 
May  turn  from  England  yet  his  wrath  away ; 
And  so  forgives  her  enemies ;  and  implores 
High  intercession  of  the  saints  with  Christ, 
Whom  crucified  she  kisses  on  his  cross. 
And  crossing  now  her  breast  — ■  Ah,  heard  you 

not  ?  130 

Even  as  thine  arms  were  spread  upon  the  cross ^ 
So  make  thy  grace ^  O  "Jesus ^  wide  for  me^ 
Receive  me  to  thy  mercy  so^  and  so 
Forgive  my  sins. 

Mary  Beaton.  So  be  it,  if  so  God  please. 

Is  she  not  risen  up  yet  ? 

Barb.  Yea,  but  mine  eyes       135 


Scene  H.]  ^Ht^  &tmtt  2  3 1 

Darken:  because  those  deadly  twain  close  masked 
Draw  nigh  as  men  that  crave  forgiveness,  which 
Gently  she  grants  :  /or  now,  she  said,  /  hope 
Tou  shall  end  all  my  troubles.    Now  meseems 
They  would  put  hand  upon  her  as  to  help,  140 

And  disarray  her  raiment :   but  she  smiles  — 
Heard  you  not  that  ?  can  you  not  hear  nor  speak, 
Poor  heart,  for  pain  ?    Truly,  she  said,  my  lords, 
I  never  had  such  chamber-grooms  before 
As  these  to  wait  on  me. 

Mary  Beaton.  An  end,  an  end.  145 

Barb.    Now  come  those  twain  upon  the  scaf- 
fold up 
Whom  she  preferred  before  us  :   and  she  lays 
Her  crucifix  down,  which  now  the  headsman 

takes 
Into  his  cursed  hand,  but  being  rebuked 
Puts  back  for  shame  that  sacred  spoil  of  hers.     150 
And  now  they  lift  her  veil  up  from  her  head 
Softly,  and  softly  draw  the  black  robe  off. 
And  all  in  red  as  of  a  funeral  flame 
She  stands  up  statelier  yet  before  them,  tall 
And  clothed  as  if  with  sunset:  and  she  takes      155 
From  Elspeth's  hand  the  crimson  sleeves,  and 

draws 
Their  covering  on  her  arms :  and  now  those  twain 
Burst  out  aloud  in  weeping:  and  she  speaks  — 
IVeep  not ;   I  promised  for  you.    Now  she  kneels  ; 


232  ^ar^  Stuart  [act  v. 

And  Jane  binds  round  a  kerchief  on  her  eyes  :    160 
And  smiling  last  her  heavenliest  smile  on  earth, 
She  waves  a  blind  hand  toward  them,  with  Fare- 
well^ 
Farewell^  to  meet  again :   and  they  come  down 
And  leave  her  praying  aloud,  In  thee^  O  Lord^ 
I  put  my  trust :  and  now,  that  psalm  being  through,  165 
She  lays  between  the  block  and  her  soft  neck 
Her  long  white  peerless  hands  up  tenderly. 
Which  now  the  headsman  draws  again  away, 
But  softly  too  :  now  stir  her  lips  again  — 
Into  thine  bands ^  O  Lord^  into  thine  hands ^  170 

Lord^  I  commend  my  spirit :   and  now  —  but  now, 
Look  you,  not  I,  the  last  upon  her. 

Mary  Beaton.  Ha  ! 

He  strikes  awry  :   she  stirs  not.    Nay,  but  now 
He  strikes  aright,  and  ends  it. 

Barb.  Hark,  a  cry. 

Voice  below.    So  perish  all  found  enemies  of  the 
queen  !  175 

Another  Voice.   Amen. 

Mary  Beaton.  I  heard  that  very  cry  go  up 

Far  off  long  since  to  God,  who  answers  here. 

THE    END. 


0ott&  to  piat^  ^twatt 

For  purely  biographical  material  see  the  Index  of  Persons. 

1.  The  motto  from  ^schylus  is  thus  translated  by  Plumptre : 
**  Now  for  the  tongue  of  bitter  hate  let  tongue 
Of  bitter  hate  be  given.    Loud  and  long 
The  voice  of  Justice  claiming  now  her  debt ; 

And  for  the  murderous  blow 
Let  him  who  slew  with  murderous  blow  repay. 
*  That  the  wrong-doer  bear  the  wrong  he  did,' 
Thrice-ancient  saying  of  a  far-off  time, 
This  speaketh  as  we  speak." 

3.  as  the  first  part  .  .  .  was  dedicated.  The  dedi- 
cation of  Chastelard  runs  as  follows  :  "I  dedicate  this  play,  as  a 
partial  expression  of  reverence  and  gratitude,  to  the  chief  of  living 
poets  5  to  the  first  dramatist  of  his  age  j  to  the  greatest  exile,  and 
therefore  to  the  greatest  man  of  France;  to  Victor  Hugo."  This 
is  followed  by  an  extract  from  Maundevile's  Voiage  and  Travaile, 
ch.  xxviii.  **  Another  Yle  is  there  toward  the  Northe,  in  the  See 
Occean,  where  that  ben  fulle  cruele  and  ful  evele  Wommen  of 
Nature ;  and  thei  han  precious  Stones  in  hire  Eyen ;  and  thei  ben 
of  that  kynde,  that  zif  they  beholden  ony  man,  thei  sley  him  anon 
with  the  beholdynge,  as  dothe  the  Basilisk."  Bothivell  has  a  motto 
from  ^schylus,  and  a  dedication  a  Victor  Hugo,  in  the  form  of  a 
French  sonnet. 

4.  Time.  The  dates  given  by  Swinburne  are  New  Style.  In 
Old  Style  they  become  August  4  and  February  8.  Old  Style  is  used 
for  all  the  dates  in  these  notes.  When  a  date,  however,  falls  between 
January  i  and  March  21,  it  is  credited  to  the  calendar  year  of  our 
modern  reckoning.  Thus  the  date  of  Mary's  execution  is  given  as 
February  8,  1587,  instead  of  1586-7. 

7.    Act  I.  Scene  I.    Date  August  4,  1586. 

7,  5.  Shall  bleach  to  death  in  prison.  The  date  of 
this  scene  is  August  4,  1586.  Mary  Stuart  has  been  a  prisoner  of 
Elizabeth,  or  at  least  an  unwilling  guest,  for  eighteen  years. 


234  iPotesf 

II,  112.    he  that  went  forth  huntsman.   Actaeon,  for 

his  boastfulness  changed  by  Artemis  into  a  stag,  and  torn  to  pieces 
by  his  own  hounds  on  Mount  Cithaeron. 

13-14,  157-58.  This  is  .  .  .  queen.  The  letter  is  dated 
July  17,  1586,  and  may  be  found  in  Labanoff's  Recueil  (6,  383), 
together  with  a  discussion  of  its  authenticity.  It  has  been  the  subject 
of  much  controversy,  since  it  was  mainly  upon  the  evidence  of  this 
letter  that  Mary  was  convicted.  Her  defenders  have  claimed  that 
the  incriminating  passages  were  interpolations  forged  by  Phillipps, 
Walsingham's  spy.  According  to  the  testimony  of  Nau  and  Curie, 
there  was  first  a  French  minute  in  Mary's  autograph,  then  a  copy 
of  this  minute  made  by  Nau  and  given  to  Curie,  then  an  English 
translation  of  this  copy,  made  by  Curie  and  by  him  put  into  cipher. 
Phillipps  intercepted  this  cipher,  translated  it  for  Walsingham,  and 
then  took  it  to  London,  and  passed  it  on  to  Babington,  July  29. 
Phillipps  thus  had  the  letter  in  his  possession  for  more  than  ten  days. 
It  is  only  in  this  (possibly)  altered  form  that  the  letter  has  been 
preserved.  The  intermediate  forms,  which  were  certainly  in  the 
hands  of  the  ministers,  mysteriously  disappeared.  Babington,  of 
course,  received  the  entire  contents  of  the  letter  in  good  faith. 

16,  221-22.  by  what  means  .  .  .  proceed.  This 
passage,  and  the  later  passage  (19,  278-293)  of  sixteen  lines, 
We  can  make  no  day  sure  .  .  .  cut  the  common 
posts  off,  are  believed  by  Mary's  defenders  to  have  been  forged 
by  Walsingham  or  Phillipps. 

16,  224.   this  last  hold.    Chartley  Castle. 

17,  230.  the  ambassador  of  Spain  in  France.  Men- 
doza. 

17,  250-51.  the  plot  laid  of  the  Puritan  part.   This 

plot  seems  to  have  been  an  invention  of  Mary. 

24,  403.  the  envoy  sent  from  France.  Chateauneuf, 
who  had  just  been  appointed  to  succeed  Mauvissiere. 

24,  413.  the  Castle  of  Dudley.  A  few  miles  south  of 
Chartley,  near  Birmingham. 

28,493.  those  following  four.  Burghley,  Walsingham, 
Hunsdon,  and  Knowles,  named  in  the  following  speech. 

28-29,  515-16.  at  first  She  writes  me,  etc.   A  brief 

dated  June  25,  1586. 


iPote0  235 

35,  671.  Good  Captain  Ballard,  Father  Fortescue. 

Father  Ballard  assumed  the  name  of  Captain  Fortescue  when  he 
visited  England  in  disguise. 

39,  748.  Fly  ;  farewell.  All  the  conspirators  but  Ballard 
escaped  arrest  at  this  time,  but  were  soon  thereafter  tracked  to  their 
hiding-places  and  captured. 

40.  Act  I.  Scenes  II,  III.    Dated  August  8,  1586. 

40.  Chartley.  Chartley  Manor  is  in  Staffordshire,  and  then 
belonged  to  the  Earl  of  Essex.    The  castle  is  now  a  ruin. 

41,  7.  The  gospeller  that  bade  us  to  the  sport.  Sir 
Amias  Paulet,  contemptuously  called  "gospeller"  on  account  of 
his  rigid  Puritanism. 

41,  22.  Since  you  rode  last.  Mary's  flight  to  the  border 
after  her  defeat  at  Langside,  when  she  rode  sixty  miles  in  one  day. 

42,  36.  The  letter  that  I  writ,  etc.  ''The  famous  and 

terrible  letter  in  which,  with  many  gracious  excuses  and  profes- 
sions of  regret  and  attachment,  she  transmits  to  Elizabeth  a  full 
and  vivid  report  of  the  hideous  gossip  retailed  by  Bess  of  Hardwick 
regarding  her  character  and  person  at  a  time  when  the  reporter  of 
these  abominations  was  on  friendly  terms  with  her  husband's  royal 
charge."  Swinburne.  This  letter  (conjecturally  dated  November, 
1584)  may  be  read  in  Labanoflf's  Recueil,  6,  50.  It  is  preserved 
among  the  Cecil  papers  at  Hatfield  House,  and  has  never  left  the 
possession  of  Burghley's  descendants.  Labanoff's  belief  is  that  it 
was  never  seen  by  Elizabeth,  but  was  either  despatched  to  her  and 
intercepted  by  Burghley,  or  was  not  sent  at  all,  but  seized  with 
Mary's  other  papers  at  Chartley  in  1586. 

43>  54-  That  other  Bess.  Elizabeth  of  Hardwick,  Countess 
of  Shrewsbury. 

45,  116.  Her  and  her  sons  .  .  .  four.   This  is  an  error. 

The  Countess  of  Shrewsbury  had  issue  only  by  the  second  of  her 
four  husbands.  The  Countess  and  her  sons  circulated  a  scandalous 
story  about  Mary  and  the  Earl  of  Shrewsbury,  which  they  were 
afterwards  forced  to  retract. 

46,  128.  her  kindleSS  lovers.  Unnatural  lovers.  **  Re- 
morseless, treacherous,  lecherous,  kindless  villain  !  "  Hamlet^  11,  2. 

46,  132.   Her  chamberlain.    Sir  Christopher  Hatton. 
46,  140.  another  born  her  man.   Leicester. 


236  il^otesf 

46,  144.  one  base-born,  a  stranger.   One  Simier,  in 

attendance  upon  the  Due  d'Anjou. 

46,  147.  the  duke  .  .  .  should  be.  The  Due  d'Alen- 
9on,  afterwards  Due  d'Anjou,  son  of  Catherine  de'  Medici,  and 
brother  of  Charles  IX  and  Henry  III.  Although  much  younger 
than  Elizabeth,  he  was  proposed  to  her  for  a  husband,  and  she  kept 
him  "hoping  and  languishing"  for  twelve  years,  until  his  death 
in  1584. 

51,243-44.  Parma  stands  .  .  .  stead.  The  Prince  of 
Parma  was  a  nephew  of  Don  John  of  Austria. 

51,  248.  our  kinsman  king.  Henry  III,  brother  of  Mary's 
first  husband. 

53,  311.  My  heart  .  .  .  quicken.  Note  that  this  line 
is  broken,  and  completed  after  the  interpolated  song. 

55>  337-  Poor  boy  that  played  her  bridegroom  1 

Francis  II,  married  to  Mary  at  the  age  of  fifteen. 

5S>  349-  Doth  he  wait  on  you,  etc.  Thomas  Phillipps, 
secretary  and  spy  of  Walsingham.  "  This  Phillippes  is  of  low  stat- 
ure, slender  every  way,  dark  yellow  beared  on  the  head  and  cleare 
yellow  bearded,  eated  in  the  face  with  small  pockes,  of  short  sight, 
thirtye  yeares  of  age  by  apparance  and  as  is  sayd  secretarye  Walsing- 
ham's  man."    Letter  from  Mary  to  Morgan,  July  17,  1586. 

57>  397'  Tixall.  An  estate  near  Chartley,  owned  by  Sir 
Walter  Aston. 

62,  499-500.  last  month  You  writ  my  master  word, 
etc.    Paulet  to  Walsingham,  June  29,  1586.    See  Paulet's  Letter 

Book,    211. 

63,  522.  the  brewer,  your  honest  man.  It  was  ar- 
ranged by  the  treacherous  Gifford  that  the  Burton  brewer  who 
supplied  Chartley  with  ale  should  provide  a  special  cask  for  Mary 
and  her  household.  This  cask  was  furnished  with  a  false  bottom, 
by  means  of  which  letters  were  received  and  despatched.  All  this 
correspondence  was  brought  into  the  hands  of  Walsingham. 

66,  605.   the   old   saw.     *'  Out  of  God's  blessing  into  the 
warm  sun."    A  proverbial  phrase  of  uncertain  origin  and  meaning. 
"  Good  King,  that  must  approve  the  common  saw, 
Thou  out  of  heaven's  benediction  comest 
To  the  warm  sun  !  "  f^i"g  Lear,  11,  2. 


i^oteflf  237 

68,  36.  Tutbury.  In  January,  1585,  Mary  was  removed 
from  Wingfield  Manor  to  Tutbury  Castle  in  Staffordshire,  where 
she  had  been  held  for  a  time  in  1569.  In  April,  Sir  Amias  Paulet 
was  appointed  her  keeper.  On  the  Christmas  Eve  following  she  was 
removed  to  Chartley  Castle  in  the  same  county. 

68,  37.  Your  birthright  in  this  land.  Paulet  belonged 
to  a  Somerset  family,  and  his  childhood  was  spent  in  that  county 
and  in  Devonshire. 

72,  135-36.  you  That  have  this  gallant  office.  Sir 

Thomas  Gorges. 

73,  146.  A  face  beside  you,  etc.   Sir  William  Wade. 
76,  218.  and  her  with  me.    Mary  Beaton. 

79.   Act  II.    Scene  I.    Dated  late  in  August,  1586. 

79.  Windsor  Castle.  The  royal  residence  on  the  Thames, 
near  London,  occupied  by  many  English  sovereigns  from  William 
the  Conqueror  to  Victoria. 

83,  90.  the  Parmesan.  Alessandro  Farnese,  Prince  of 
Parma,  and  governor  of  the  Netherlands. 

87,  187.  with  more  pains,  etc.  The  most  shocking  bar- 
barity was  shown  in  the  execution  of  Babington  and  his  accomplices. 

89.  Act  II.  Scene  II.  Mary  returned  to  Chartley,  August  30. 
This  scene  must  be  dated  soon  after. 

89,  12.  seventeen  days.  From  August  8  to  August  30, 
according  to  LabanoflF. 

91,  45-47.   the  witness  borne  ...  By  those  her 

secretaries.  Nau  and  Curie  were  interrogated  September  2, 
and  again  September  20. 

91,  55.  The  Frenchman.    Curie. 

93,  87.  the  most  faithful  head,  etc.  Chastelard  was 
executed  February  22,  1563. 

93,  107-  That  I  shall  never  leave  her  till  she  die. 
**  But  I  will  never  leave  you  till  you  die."  The  closing  line  of 
Bothiuell. 

99.  Tyburn.  The  place  of  execution  of  these  conspirators  was 
not  Tyburn,  but  **  a  fielde  at  the  upper  end  of  Holbome,  hard  by 
the  high  way  side  to  S.  Giles." 

100, 13-15.  one  that  shall  die  .  .  ,  to  his  defence. 
Babington. 


238  il^otesf 

102,  74.  Shows  seven  for  dead,  etc.  Babington,  Bal- 
lard, Tichborne,  Savage,  Barnwell,  Tilney,  and  Abington  were  exe- 
cuted September  20,  1586.  Salisbury,  Donn,  Jones,  Charnock, 
Travers,  Gage,  and  BeUamy  were  executed  on  the  day  following. 

103,  98.  that  hallowed  earth.    Ireland. 

105,  150.  And  that  my  brother  may  possess,  etc. 

Babington's  estates,  which  were  large,  were  forfeited  to  the  crown, 
and  afterwards  bestowed  upon  Ralegh  by  Elizabeth. 

106,  168.  and  verified  a  saying  in  me,  etc.   Silence 

gives  consent. 

III.    Act  III.    Dated  October  14,  1586. 

III.  Fotheringay  Castle.  Situated  in  Northamptonshire, 
near  Peterborough.  The  trial  of  Mary  took  place  here  October 
14-15,  1586,  and  her  execution  February  8,  1 58 7.  The  castle 
was  demolished  in  the  seventeenth  century. 

III.  The  Commissioners.  Forty-six  peers  and  privy  coun- 
cillors constituted  the  commission  for  the  trial  of  Mary.  They  were 
appointed  October  6,  and  thirty-six  of  them  assembled  at  Fotherin- 
gay  October  12.  Mary  at  first  refused  to  appear  before  them,  but 
afterwards  consented  under  protest,  and  the  trial  began  October  14. 

115,  103.  that  secretary's.    Walsingham. 

116,  116.  the  pope's  bull.  The  bull  of  Pius  V,  excom- 
municating and  dethroning  Elizabeth,  was  issued  in  1 5  70.  Similar 
bulls  were  issued  by  Gregory  XIII  and  Sixtus  V. 

122,  277.  her,  who  contrariwise,  etc.  *'  When  Burgh- 
ley  brought  against  her  the  unanswerable  charge  of  having  at  that 
moment  in  her  service,  and  in  receipt  of  an  annual  pension,  the 
instigator  of  a  previous  attempt  on  the  life  of  Elizabeth,  she  had 
the  unwary  audacity  to  cite  in  her  justification  the  pensions  allowed 
by  Elizabeth  to  her  adversaries  in  Scotland,  and  especially  to  her  son. 
It  is  remarkable  that  just  two  months  later,  in  a  conversation  with 
her  keepers,  she  again  made  use  of  the  same  extraordinary  argu- 
ment in  reply  to  the  same  inevitable  imputation,  and  would  not  be 
brought  to  admit  that  the  two  cases  were  other  than  parallel." 
Swinburne. 

125,  349.  Esther  than  Judith.  Instead  of  playing  the  part 
of  Judith,  who  slew  Holophernes,  she  would  rather,  like  Esther, 
save  her  people  from  massacre, 

126,  387.   An  act  against  their  lives,  etc.   In  Octo- 


ipotes;  239 

ber,  1584,  "  Walsingham  and  Burghley  between  them  bethought 
them  of  a  new  and  special  appeal  to  the  loyalty  of  the  country.  An 
'  Instrument  of  an  Association  for  the  preservation  of  the  Queen's 
Majesty's  Royal  person  '  was  drawn  up  with  great  care  and  circu- 
lated not  only  among  the  clergy  and  nobility,  but  among  freeholders, 
farmers,  and  all  men  of  substance  in  the  several  counties  of  England 
and  Wales.  .  .  .  The  signatories  bound  themselves  under  an  oath 
to  preserve  the  Queen's  person  with  their  substance  and  their  lives, 
and  to  *  pursue  to  utter  extermination  '  all  who  should  attempt  to 
harm  her  *  or  claim  succession  to  the  crown  by  the  untimely  death  of 
her  Majesty.'  "  Augustus  Jessopp.  The  provisions  of  this  instru- 
ment were  embodied  in  an  Act  of  Parliament  a  few  weeks  later.  It 
may  be  added  that  Mary  subscribed  to  this  "  bond  of  association." 
141.  Act  IV.  Scene  I.  Dated  November  28,  1586.  Bel- 
lievre  had  three  interviews  with  Elizabeth,  November  28,  December 
5,  and  December  24.    The  first  of  them  is  represented  in  this  scene. 

141.  Richmond.  On  the  Thames,  between  London  and 
Windsor.  Here  Elizabeth  often  held  court,  and  here  she  died.  The 
palace  was  demolished  in  1648. 

141,6-8.  To  takeoff.  .  .Authority.  At  midnight  of 
the  second  day  of  Mary's  trial  at  Fotheringay,  Elizabeth  sent  a  mes- 
sage to  the  commissioners  adjourning  the  case  to  the  Star-Chamber. 

142,  26.    piteous    challenge    and   imperial   plea. 

Mary's  letter  to  Elizabeth,  ?  November  19,  1586.  LabanoflF,  6,  444. 

144,  78.  Wise  Plato's  word.  See  the  Third  Book  of 
The  Republic.     Jowett's  Plato,  in,  104. 

145,  III.  These  nineteen  .  .  .  reign.  Elizabeth  had 
been  upon  the  throne  for  nearly  twenty-nine  years.  It  may  be  that 
Bellievre  means  the  (nearly)  nineteen  years  since  Mary  came  to 
England. 

145,115.  rampire.  Rampart.  The  meaning  is  that  fear  of 
Mary's  succession  and  a  Catholic  restoration  had  rallied  the  English 
people  to  Elizabeth's  support,  and  that  it  would  be  ruinous  to  Eng- 
land to  have  this  cause  of  unity  removed. 

146,  122.    A   certain    prince's   minister.    Mendoza, 

Philip's  ambassador,  formerly  to  England,  now  to  France. 

147,  144.  she  hath  three  times  sought  my  life. 
The  plots  of  Parry  and  Babington  are  two  of  the  three  mentioned. 


240  j^OttSi 

Swinburne's  coupling  of  the  names  of  Lopez  and  Parry  (82,  65) 
seems  to  indicate  that  the  plot  of  Lopez  stood  in  his  mind  as  the 
third  (see  Index  of  Persons).  Otherwise,  the  third  would  be  sup- 
plied by  Arden  or  Somerville,  implicated  in  the  Throckmorton  con- 
spiracy. 

147,  158.  who  now  this  second  time,  etc.  Morgan 
instigated  Parry's  attempted  assassination  as  well  as  the  Babington 
conspiracy. 

150,  226-27.  the  claim  .  .  .  Philip.  Should  the  Prince 
of  Parma  invade  England,  France  would  stand  in  greater  peril  from 
Spain  than  when  menaced  only  by  the  claim  of  Philip  to  the  Eng- 
lish succession. 

150,  232.  Steer  any  way,  etc.  The  death  of  Mary  might 
lead  to  a  Spanish  occupation  of  England,  thereby  exposing  France  to 
danger  from  both  north  and  south. 

151,  247.  The  smooth-cheeked  French  man-harlot, 
nor  that  hand,  etc.  Charles  IX  of  France  and  Philip  II  of 
Spain. 

152,  274.  those  twain  that  come,  etc.   Gray  and  Sir 

Robert  Melville,  Melville  was  honest  in  his  efforts  to  save  Mary, 
but  Gray,  who  ostensibly  pleaded  for  her,  wrote  to  Walsingham 
advising  that  she  be  murdered  in  secret. 

154,  331.    his  dead  father's  slayer.   Bothwell. 

154.  337-  that  brother-in-law  that  was  of  ours. 
Philip  II. 

I57»  407-  what  fire  of  joy  brake  forth,  etc.  **  From 
tower  and  steeple  the  bells  crashed  out,  unceasing  for  a  whole  day 
and  night.  Church  answered  church  till  the  news  had  been  borne 
to  the  furthest  glen  in  Cumberland.  London  was  illuminated.  Fag- 
gots blazed  in  town  and  village ;  and  a  shout  of  exultation  rose  out 
of  every  loyal  throat."    Froude. 

161,  492-93.   She  to  this   Makes  bitter  answer, 

etc.  The  matter  here  given  is  paraphrased  from  Mary's  letter  to 
the  Archbishop  of  Glasgow,  November  24,  1586.  Labanoff,  6, 
466. 

162,  522.  Be  persecuted  even  as  David  once.  When 

Saul  sent  messengers  to  slay  David  in  his  house,  he  escaped  through 
the  wmdow  ( i  Samuel  xix,  12).    Afterwards,  Saul  was  defeated  and 


il^otesf  241 

slain  on  Mount  Gilboa  by  the  Philistines,  and  David  succeeded  him 
as  king  of  Israel  (  I  Samuel  xxxi,  i ). 

162,  528.  Our  shield  shall  not,  etc.  "  For  there  the 
shield  of  the  mighty  is  vilely  cast  away,  the  shield  of  Saul,  as  though 
he  had  not  been  anointed  vv^ith  oil."     (2  Samuel  i,  21.) 

163.  Act  IV,  Scene  II.  Dated  December  1 7,  1586.  This 
date  is  determined  by  one  of  Paulet's  letters. 

165,  54.  this  hue  and  cry.  "  Rumours  were  spread,  that 
London  was  fired,  and  the  Queen  of  Scots  had  escaped  ;  precepts 
of  hue  and  cry  were  sent  to  the  several  towns,  to  retake  the  fugi- 
tive."    G.  Chalmers. 

166,  81.  Those  treasons  of  the  French  ambas- 
sador. The  ambassador  was  Chateauneuf.  Swinburne  says  that 
Elizabeth  * '  had  a  charge  trumped  up  against  him  of  participation  in 
a  conspiracy  against  her  life. ' ' 

167,  95.  this  man's  tale,  etc.  See  note  just  preceding. 
On  January  4,  1587,  one  William  Stafford,  a  notorious  reprobate, 
sought  out  Destrappes,  Chateauneuf 's  secretary,  and  took  him  to 
see  a  man  named  Moody,  an  inmate  of  the  debtor's  prison  at  New- 
gate, who  offered,  for  the  payment  of  his  debt,  to  murder  Elizabeth. 
Chateauneuf,  being  warned  of  this,  indignantly  drove  Stafford  from 
his  presence  when  the  latter  appeared.  Two  days  latw,  Destrappes 
was  arrested  and  sent  to  the  Tower.  Stafford,  failing  in  his  attempt 
at  blackmail,  brought  charges  against  Chateauneuf,  who  was  sum- 
moned to  defend  himself  before  a  council  of  ministers.  Here  Moody 
was  impudent  enough  to  accuse  Chateauneuf  to  his  face,  but  the 
case  was  so  obviously  trumped-up  that  nothing  came  of  it.  There  is 
an  anachronism  in  the  discussion  of  this  affair  by  Paulet  and  Drury, 
December  17,  1586. 

167,  102.  such  means  as  once,  etc.   The  murder  of 

Darnley  at  Kirk  of  Field. 

170,  1 79.  That  oath  whereby  we  stand  associated. 

The  bond  of  association.    See  note  126,  387. 

171,222.   Make  heretics  of  these  papers.  Burn  them. 
172,  247-48.    God  forbid  That  I  should  make,  etc. 

"  God  forbid  that  I  should  make  so  foul  a  shipwreck  of  mycon- 
science,  or  leave  so  great  a  blot  to  my  poor  posterity,  to  shed  blood 
without  law  or  warrant."    Paulet's  Letter  Book,  362. 


242  jliote0 

176.  Enter  Mary  Stuart  and  Mary  Beaton.   The 

material  for  this  scene  is  taken  from  Paulet's  letter  to  Davison, 
December  21,  1586. 

176,  343-  a  memorial  writ,  etc.  Mary's  last  letter  to 
Elizabeth,  December  19,  1586. 

176,  349-  take  the  assay  of  it.  Mary  offers  to  prove, 
by  her  own  handling  of  the  paper,  that  it  is  not  poisoned. 

I77>  3^5-  your  queen's  grandsire.   Henry  VII. 

181,  451-52.  that  commission  of  your  causes  held 

At  York.  A  conference  held  at  York  in  October,  1568,  to  in- 
quire into  Mary's  guilt  in  connection  with  the  murder  of  Darnley. 
It  was  here  that  the  famous  Casket  Letters  were  first  produced.  No 
definite  conclusion  was  reached. 

181,  459-60.  his  book  Is  extant.  Probahly  ^  Defenct 
of  the  Honour  of  the  Right  Highe^  Mightye^  and  Noble  Princesse 
Marie,  S^eene  of  Scotland  and  Doivager  of  France j  etc.  London, 
1569.  The  book  was  at  once  suppressed,  and  copies  of  it  are  very 
rare. 

182,  472.  my  lord  treasurer.    Burghley. 
183,488-90.  my  rebels  here  .  .  .  have  been  Main- 
tained.   See  note  122,  277. 

183,  493-94.    What  did  she  ...  at  Newhaven  ? 

Newhaven  is  Havre  de  Grace.  This  is  an  allusion  to  Elizabeth's 
occupation  of  that  port  with  an  English  garrison  in  1 562,  at  the  time 
of  the  French  civil  wars.  Curiously  enough,  Paulet  had  been  asked 
the  same  question  by  Catherine  de'  Medici  in  1577,  when  he  was 
at  the  French  court. 

184,  516.  his  entertainment  there.   In  1583  Walsing- 

ham  was  sent  to  Edinburgh  to  judge  of  affairs  at  close  quarters,  and 
to  dissuade  James  from  negotiating  with  Spain  in  his  mother's  be- 
half.   He  went  reluctantly,  and  his  mission  was  unfruitful. 

188,  612-13.  some  one  said  I  must  be  perilous 
ever. 

'*  Men  must  love  you  in  life's  spite  ; 
For  you  will  always  kill  them  ;   man  by  man 
Your  lips  will  bite  them  dead  ;  yea,  though  you  would, 
You  shall  not  spare  one ;  all  will  die  of  you." 

Chastelard,  v,  2. 


il^otes^  243 

190,  668     my  poor  servant  slain  before  my  face, 

David  Rizzio. 

191,  678-79.  of  him  indeed  Record  was  made.   He 

was  avenged  by  the  murder  of  Darnley. 

195.  Apres  tant  de  jours,  etc.  See  Chastelard^  i,  2. 
This  exquisite  lyric  is  a  notable  illustration  of  Swinburne's  French 
verse.    To  translate  it  would  be  a  crime. 

197.    Act  IV,  Scene  III.    Dated  February  i,  1587. 

197.  Greenwich.  Situated  on  the  Thames,  a  few  miles 
below  London  Bridge.  Here  Elizabeth  was  born.  The  palace  was 
destroyed  during  the  Commonwealth,  and  afterwards  rebuilt,  but 
converted  into  a  hospital. 

201,  87.  This  dainty  fellow.    Sir  Amias  Paulet, 

202,  112.  my  lord  admiral.  Charles  Howard,  Lord 
Howard  of  Effingham,  Earl  of  Nottingham. 

202,  124.  the  lord  chancellor.  Sir  Thomas  Bromley. 

203,  145.  This  letter  .  .  .  last  writ.  The  letter  is 
dated  December  19,  1586.    It  may  be  found  in  Labanoff,  6,474. 

204,  170.  her  honoured  mother's.    Mary  of  Guise. 

207,  249-50.  the  duke  .  .  .  and  his  knave.  The 
Due  d'Anjou,  and  one  Simier,  in  attendance  on  him. 

208,  263.  The  she-wolf  that  I  saved,  etc.   Livy,  as 

a  rationalizing  explanation  of  the  Romulus  and  Remus  story,  sug- 
gests that  the  wolf  (lupa)  who  suckled  the  princes  was  a  courtesan. 
Hence  the  Latin  word  (lupanar)  for  brothel.  By  a  sort  of  pun,  this 
word  is  brought  into  relation  with  the  Louvre  (Lupara  or  Louverie) 
which  was  originally  the  name  of  a  hunting-lodge. 

213.   Act  V.  Scene  I.    Dated  February  7,  1586. 
213.   O  Lord  my  God,  etc.    A  translation  of  the  Latin 
verses  composed  by  Mary  just  before  her  execution. 

O  Domine  Deus,  speravi  in  te  ! 

O  care  mi  Jesu,  nunc  libera  me  ! 

In  dura  catena,  in  misera  poena, 

Languendo,  gemendo,  et  genu  flectendo, 

Adoro,  imploro  ut  liberes  me. 

213,  17-    the  earl  marshal.    The  Earl  of  Shrewsbury. 
221,  205.  that  the  king  of  Spain,  etc.   The  author  of 
La  Mort  de  la  Royne  d' Ecosse  (in  JebbJ  says  that  Mary's  physician 


244  jl^otrsi 

and  surgeon  demanded  of  Paulet  her  heart,  that  they  might  take  it 
to  France. 

223,   255.    that  earl  who  rose  for  me  with  him. 

Thomas  Percy,  Earl  of  Northumberland. 

223,  259.  the  treasurer.    Burghley. 

224.  Act  V.  Scene   II.    Dated  Wednesday,    February  8, 
1586. 

229,  112.  That  heretic  priest.    Richard  Fletcher,  Dean 
of  Peterborough. 

230,  122.  the  great  psalms  of  penitence.    Miserere 

mei,  Deus,  etc.    In  te,  Domine,  speravi,  etc.    Qui  habitat  in  ad- 
jutorio,  etc. 

231,  159-    Weep  not  .   .   .  you.    '*  Ne  criez  vous,  j'ay 
prom  is  pour  vous." 

232,  170-71.  Into  .   .   .  spirit.    In  manus  tuas,  Domine, 
commendo  spiritum  meum.    Luke  xxiii,  46. 

232,  175-76.   Voice  below  .  .  .  Another  voice.  The 

Earl  of  Kent  and  the  Dean  of  Peterborough. 


Sfntiejc  of  l^erjsonjS' 

Abington.  Edward  Abington  (or  Habington,  1553  ?-i586) 
was  one  of  the  conspirators  with  Babington.  He  vehemently 
maintained  his  innocence,  but  was  executed  with  the  others. 

Allen.  William  Allen  (  1 532-1 594)  was  a  Catholic  theologian 
who  left  England  in  1565,  and  established  a  college  for  English 
students,  first  at  Douay,  then  at  Rheims.  In  1584  he  entered 
upon  a  course  of  political  intrigue  directed  against  Elizabeth  and 
English  Protestantism,  and  advocated  the  claims  of  Philip  II  to 
the  English  throne.  He  was  made  a  cardinal  in  August,  1587. 
The  attribution  to  him  of  that  title  in  Mary  Stuart  is  thus  inac- 
curate. 

Arden.  Francis  Arden  had  been  in  the  Tower  for  over  two  years 
when  mentioned  in  the  play,  and  was  under  sentence  of  death. 
He  remained  in  prison  until  his  escape  in  1597. 

Arundel.  Philip  Howard,  first  Earl  of  Arundel  (1557-1595), 
was  converted  to  Catholicism  in  1584,  and  intrigued  against 
Elizabeth.  He  was  sent  to  the  Tower  in  1585,  and  remamed  a 
prisoner  until  his  death. 

Aston.  Sir  Walter  Aston  (d.  1589)  was  the  owner  of  Tixall,  an 
estate  near  Chartley. 

Aubespine.   See  Chateauneuf. 

Aumale.  Charles  de  Lorraine,  Due  d'Aumale  (1556-163 1), 
was  an  adherent  of  the  League  in  the  French  religious  wars,  and 
leader  of  the  party  after  the  murder,  in  1588,  of  Henry  I,  third 
Duke  of  Guise.  When  Sir  William  Waad  was  sent  to  Paris  in 
1585  to  demand  the  surrender  of  Morgan,  he  was  waylaid  by 
Aumale  near  Amiens  and  given  a  severe  beating. 

I  The  biographical  material  of  this  Index  is  based  chiefly  upon  the 
Dictionary  of  National  Biography^  edited  by  Leslie  Stephen  and  Sidney 
Lee.  Only  such  facts  are  presented  as  seem  necessary  for  an  intelligent 
leading  of  the  drama. 


246  Jinm  of  persfonsf 

Babington.  Anthony  Babington  (1561-1586)  was  a  page  in 
the  household  of  Mary  Stuart  during  her  imprisonment  at  Shef- 
field, and  afterwards  leader  of  the  Catholic  conspiracy  in  her  be- 
half. He  was  executed  with  six  of  his  companions,  September 
10,  1585. 

Ballard.  John  Ballard  {d.  1586)  was  the  chief  instigator  of  the 
Babington  conspiracy.  He  was  a  Jesuit  priest,  and  visited  Eng- 
land disguised  as  a  soldier  under  the  name  of  Captain  Fortescue. 
He  was  the  first  of  the  conspirators  to  be  executed  September  20. 

Barnes.  Thomas  Barnes  was  an  agent  of  Phillipps  in  betraying 
the  correspondence  conducted  by  Mary  from  Chartley. 

Barnwell.  Robert  Barnwell  was  one  of  the  conspirators  with 
Babington.  The  Dictionary  of  National  Biography  gives  no 
account  of  him  except  in  this  connection. 

Beale.  Robert  Beale  (1541-1601)  was  a  diplomatist  and  anti- 
quary, who  was  sent  on  numerous  missions  to  Mary,  and  who 
accompanied  Lord  Buckhurst  when  he  informed  her  of  the 
death-sentence.  He  had  the  duty  of  reading  the  warrant  aloud 
at  Fotheringay  just  before  the  execution,  of  which  he  has  left 
an  account. 

Beaton.  Mary  Beaton  is  the  only  character  in  the  tragedy  pre- 
sented in  a  mainly  fictitious  light.  The  real  Mary  Beaton  was, 
however,  one  of  the  *'  four  Maries"  who  attended  the  Queen 
in  her  earlier  years.  She  married  Alexander  Ogilvie  while  the 
Queen  was  still  in  Scotland. 

Beaton.   See  Glasgow. 

Belleau.  Remy  Belleau  (1528-1577)  was  a  French  poet,  and 
a  member  of  the  Pleiade. 

Bellievre.  Pomponne  de  Bellievre  (1529-1607)  was  sent  by 
the  French  court  to  Elizabethan  1586  to  demand  Mary's  par- 
don. 

Bourgoin.  Dominique  Bourgoin  was  Mary's  physician,  and  one 
of  the  attendants  chosen  to  accompany  her  to  the  scaffold. 

Bromley.  Sir  Thomas  Bromley  (i 530-1 587)  became  Lord 
Chancellor  in  1579,  and  was  active  in  the  prosecution  of  the 
Babington  conspirators  and  of  Mary.  The  strain  of  her  trial  and 
execution  proved  too  much  for  his  strength,  and  he  died  a  few 
weeks  afterward. 


3|nDe]t:  of  pers^on0  247 

Buckhurst.  Thomas  Sackville,  first  Earl  of  Dorset  and  Baron 
Buckhurst(l536-l6o8),  was  the  ^oet  of  ^  My rrovre  for  Magis- 
trates and  Gorboduc.  He  was  one  of  the  commissioners  for  the 
trial  of  Mary,  but  took  no  part  in  the  proceedings.  He  was  sent 
to  Fotheringay  in  December,  1586,  to  announce  to  Mary  the 
sentence  of  death. 

Burghley.  William  Cecil,  Lord  Burghley  (i 520-1 598),  was 
Secretary  of  State  under  Elizabeth,  and  foremost  minister  of  the 
Crown. 

Carey.   See  Hunsdon. 
Cecil.   See  Burghley. 

Chastelard.    Pierre  Boscobel  de  Chastelard   ( 1 540-1 563)   was 

a  French  poet  who  came  to  Scotland  in  Mary's  train  in   15 61. 

Discovered  one  night  hiding  in  her  bed-chamber    (his  second 

offence  of  this  sort),  he  was  seized,  sentenced,  and  hanged  the 

next  morning,  February  22,  1563. 
Chateauneuf.    Guillaume  de  1' Aubespine,  Marquis  de  Chateau- 

neuf  ( 1 547-1 629),  was  sent  in  August,  1585,  to  replace  Mau- 

vissiere  as  French  ambassador  to  Elizabeth. 
Curie.    Elspeth  Curie  was  a  sister  of  Gilbert  Curie,  and  one  of 

Mary's  attendants  on  the  scaffold. 
Curie.    Gilbert  Curie  was  Nau's  subordinate  as  secretary  to  Mary. 

Her  attendant,  Barbara  Mowbray,  became  his  wife. 

Davison.  William  Davison  (1541?- 1608)  was  secretary  of 
Elizabeth,  and  assistant  to  Walsingham.  He  was  named  on  the 
commission  for  the  trial  of  Mary,  but  took  no  part  in  the  pro- 
ceedings. He  presented  the  warrant  for  Mary's  execution  to 
Elizabeth,  who  signed  it,  but  asked  Davison  to  hint  to  Mary's 
keepers  that  they  might  privately  rid  her  of  her  troublesome 
prisoner.  He  wrote  a  letter  to  that  effect,  but  Paulet  and  Drury 
indignantly  repudiated  the  suggestion.  After  the  execution  of 
Mary,  he  was  made  a  scapegoat  by  Elizabeth,  who  charged  him 
with  having  exceeded  his  instructions,  and  he  was  imprisoned  in 
the  Tower  for  two  years. 

Didier.  Didier  Sifflard  was  an  aged  servant  of  Mary,  a  butler, 
mentioned  in  her  will,  and  one  of  those  chosen  to  accompany  her 
to  the  scaffold. 


248  ^Inuep  of  persfonsf 

Donne.  Henry  Donn  was  one  of  the  conspirators  tried  and  exe- 
cuted with  Babington. 

Drury.  Sir  Drue  Drury  ( 1 531?-! 6 1 7)  was  a  gentleman-usher 
at  Elizabeth's  court.  In  November,  1586,  he  was  sent  to  Fother- 
ingay  to  assist  Paulet  in  the  wardership  of  Mary. 

Dudley.   See  Leicester. 

Egerton.  Sir  Thomas  Egerton,  Baron  Ellesmere  and  Viscount 
Brackley  (1540?-! 61 7),  was  Solicitor-General  at  the  time  of 
Mary's  trial. 

Elizabeth.  Elizabeth,  Queen  of  England  and  Ireland  (1533- 
1603),  was  the  daughter  of  Henry  VIII  and  Anne  Boleyn.  She 
came  to  the  throne  in  1558.  Her  attitude  toward  Mary  was 
determined  by  the  fact  that  the  latter  laid  claim  to  the  throne, 
and  had  the  support  of  the  Catholic  party  at  home  and  abroad. 
Several  attempts  upon  her  life  were  made  in  the  interest  of 
Mary,  who  connived  at,  if  she  did  not  instigate  them.  This  is 
the  ample  justification  of  Mary's  trial  and  execution. 

Ellesmere.    See  Egerton. 

Farnese.  Alessandro  Farnese,  Prince  of  Parma  (1546-1592), 
was  an  Italian  soldier  in  the  service  of  Philip  II,  and  one  of  the 
foremost  generals  of  his  age.  He  succeeded  his  uncle,  Don  John 
of  Austria,  as  governor  of  the  Spanish  Netherlands. 

Fernihurst.  Andrew  Ker  of  Ferniehurst  was  a  son-in-law  of 
Sir  William  Kirkcaldy  of  Grange,  and  was  by  him  appointed 
provost  of  Edinburgh  at  the  time  when  that  city  was  being  held 
for  Mary  against  the  assault  of  the  English  and  Scotch  partisans 
of  her  son. 

Fletcher.  Richard  Fletcher  {d.  1596)  was  Dean  of  Peter- 
borough, and  afterwards  Bishop  of  London.  He  officiated  as 
chaplain  at  the  execution  of  Mary.  He  was  the  father  of  John 
Fletcher,  the  dramatist. 

Gage.  Robert  Gage  was  one  of  the  conspirators  tried  and  exe- 
cuted with  Babington. 

Gawdy.  Sir  Francis  Gawdy  [d.  1606)  was  Queen's  Sergeant, 
and  in  that  capacity  opened  tke  case  against  Mary  on  the  occa- 
sion of  her  trial. 


BlnDer  of  ^tt^om  249 

Gervais.  Jacques  Gervais  was  Mary's  surgeon,  and  accompanied 
her  to  the  scaffold. 

Gifford.  Gilbert  Gifford(i56i  ?-i59o)  was  an  unscrupulous 
scoundrel  who  acted  as  a  spy  in  the  service  of  Walsingham. 
Being  a  Catholic,  and  in  orders,  he  gained  the  confidence  of 
Mary's  friends,  and  betrayed  their  plans  to  the  government.  He 
encouraged  the  Babington  conspirators,  and  delivered  Mary's  let- 
ters to  his  master.  He  died  in  prison.  **  That  he  was  capable 
of  almost  any  villainy  is  clear."    Sidney  Lee. 

Gifford.  William  Gifford  (  1554-1629)  was  alecturer  at  the  Eng- 
lish College  at  Rheims,  and  afterwards  Archbishop  and  Duke  of 
Rheims,  and  the  first  peer  of  France.  There  is  nothing  to  indi- 
cate that  he  was  related  to  the  spy  Gilbert  Gifford. 

Glasgow.  James  Beaton  (or  Bethune),  Archbishop  of  Glasgow 
(15  17-1603),  was  Mary's  representative  at  the  French  court 
for  many  years,  and  administered  her  revenues  as  dowager  of 
France. 

Gorges.  Sir  Thomas  Gorges  was  a  gentleman  of  Elizabeth's 
court,  sent  with  Wade  to  seize  Mary's  papers  at  Chartley. 

Gorion.  Pierre  Gorion  was  Mary's  apothecary,  and  chosen  to 
accompany  her  to  the  scaffold.  In  October,  1587,  he  returned 
to  Paris,  and  fulfilled  the  injunctions  laid  upon  him  by  reporting 
to  Mendoza.  It  may  be  added  that  the  King  of  Spain  scrupu- 
lously complied  with  Mary's  requests. 

Grange.  Sir  William  Kirkcaldy  of  Grange  [d.  1573)  was  one 
of  Mary's  enemies  in  Scotland,  but  was  later  restored  to  her  favor. 
After  the  assassination  of  Murray,  he  held  the  castle  of  Edin- 
burgh for  the  Queen's  party,  but  was  forced  to  surrender  it  to 
the  combined  forces  of  James  VI  and  Elizabeth,  whereupon  he 
was  hanged. 

Gray.  Patrick  Gray,  sixth  Lord  Gray  {d.  161 2),  known  as  the 
'*  Master  of  Gray,"  was  commissioned  by  Mary  to  represent  her 
interests  at  the  court  of  her  son  James,  but  betrayed  her  secrets 
to  him,  and  plotted  against  her. 

Grey.    See  Kent. 

Guise.  Francis,  second  Duke  of  Guise  (  1519-1563),  was  Mary's 
uncle,  and  one  of  the  greatest  of  French  generals.  He  held 
Metz  against  Charles  V,  took  Calais   from   the   English,  and 


250  ^nm  oi  ^tv&om 

brought  about  the  treaty  of  Cateau-Cambresis.  He  was  assassi- 
nated by  a  Huguenot  nobleman,  February  1 8,  1563. 

Guise.  Henry  I,  third  Duke  of  Guise  (1550-1588),  was  a 
first  cousin  of  Mary.  He  was  the  head  of  the  League,  and  one 
of  the  contrivers  of  the  Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew,  August  24, 
1572.    He  was  assassinated  December  23,  1588. 

Guise.   See  Lorraine. 

Hardwick.   See  Shrewsbury. 
Hastings.   See  Huntingdon. 

Hatton.  Sir  Christopher  Hatton,  Lord  Chancellor  of  England 
( 1 540-1 591 ),  was  a  favorite  of  Elizabeth,  and  took  a  prominent 
part  in  the  trials  of  Parry,  Babington,  and  Mary. 

Howard.  Charles  Howard,  Lord  Howard  of  Effingham,  Earl  of 
Nottingham  (153 6- 16 24),  was  a  distinguished  courtier  and  Lord 
High  Admiral.  He  was  appointed  a  commissioner  for  Mary's 
trial,  but  was  not  present.  According  to  Davison,  it  was  at 
Howard's  urgent  request  that  Elizabeth  signed  the  death-warrant. 

Howard.    See  Arundel. 

Howard.    See  Norfolk. 

Hunsdon.  Henry  Carey,  first  Lord  Hunsdon  (l524?-i596),> 
was  cousin  to  Elizabeth  and  chamberlain  of  her  household,  also 
the  occupant  of  many  responsible  positions.  He  was  one  of  the 
commissioners  for  the  trial  of  Mary  at  Fotheringay. 

Huntingdon.  Henry  Hastings,  third  Earl  of  Huntingdon 
(1535-1595),  was  for  a  short  time  joint  custodian  (with 
Shrewsbury)  of  Mary  at  Tutbury.  He  was  a  zealous  Puritan,  and 
a  claimant  to  the  throne  of  England. 

James.  Son  of  Mary  and  Darnley  (  1566-1625),  became  James 
VI  of  Scotland  in  1567  (with  Murray  as  regent),  and  James  I 
of  England  after  the  death  of  Elizabeth  in  1603. 

John.  Don  John  of  Austria  ( 1 547-1 578)  was  an  illegitimate  son 
of  the  Emperor  Charles  V,  and  celebrated  for  his  victory  over 
the  Turks  at  Lepanto  (1571).  He  was  governor  of  the  Neth- 
erlands from  1576  to  his  death,  A  marriage  with  Mary  was 
planned  for  him,  to  take  place  after  the  conquest  of  England  by 
Philip  II  of  Spain. 


31nDer  of  per0on0  251 

Kennedy.  Jane  Kennedy  was  one  of  the  attendants  who  accom- 
panied Mary  to  the  scaffold.  She  afterwards  married  Sir  Andrew 
Melville. 

Kent.  Henry  Grey,  sixth  Earl  of  Kent  {d.  1615),  was  given 
charge  of  Mary's  execution,  in  company  with  the  Earl  of  Shrews- 
bury. 

Ker.   See  Fernihurst. 

Kirkcaldy.    See  Grange. 

Knowles.  Sir  Francis  Knollys  (1514?-! 596)  was  put  in  charge 
of  Mary  upon  her  arrival  in  England,  and  taught  her  the  English 
language,  trying  at  the  same  time  to  convert  her.  He  acted  as 
a  commissioner  at  the  trials  of  the  Babington  conspirators  and  of 
Mary. 

Leicester.  Robert  Dudley,  Earl  of  Leicester  (i532?-i588), 
was  Elizabeth's  favorite  courtier,  whom  early  in  her  reign  she 
thought  of  marrying.  About  1563,  she  suggested  him  as  a  pos- 
sible husband  for  Mary.  He  became  one  of  Mary's  most  deter- 
mined enemies,  and  urged  upon  Elizabeth  that  she  be  privately 
murdered. 

Leslie.   See  Ross. 

Lewis.   See  Lodovic. 

Liggons.  Ralph  Liggons  was  Mary's  agent  in  Flanders,  where 
he  had  lived  in  exile  for  several  years. 

Lodovic.  Presumably  Owen  Lewis  (1532-1594),  a  Welsh 
Catholic,  who  was  Bishop  of  Cassano  (Naples)  and  held  other 
ecclesiastic  offices  abroad.  He  was  a  friend  of  Cardinal  Allen 
from  their  boyhood  days,  and  joint  founder  with  him  of  the 
English  seminaries  at  Douay  and  Rome. 

Lopez.  Roderigo  Lopez  was  a  Portuguese  Jew,  a  physician,  who 
settled  in  England  in  1559,  and  was  implicated  in  a  plot  to 
murder  Elizabeth.  He  was  executed  in  1 594.  The  allusion  in 
the  text  is  consequently  an  anachronism. 

Lorraine.  Charles,  Cardinal  of  Lorraine  ( 1 525-1574),  was 
the  brother  of  Francis,  Duke  of  Guise,  and  Mary's  uncle. 

Madge.  Margaret  of  Valois,  sister  of  Charles  IX,  and  wife  of 
Henry  IV. 


252  3|nDe]i:  of  persfonsf 

Mary  Stuart.  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  (  1 542-1 587)  was  born  in 
Linlithgow  Palace,  December  7  or  8 , 1 542.  She  was  the  daughter 
of  James  V  of  Scotland  and  Mary  of  Guise,  She  became  an  in- 
fant queen  December  14,  1542,  on  the  death  of  her  father.  On 
July  7,  1548,  an  arrangement  was  made  for  her  marriage  to  the 
French  dauphin,  and  she  was  at  once  sent  to  France  for  her  edu- 
cation. She  was  married  April  24,  I  558,  When  Mary  Tudor 
died  in  November  of  that  year,  Mary  Stuart  claimed  the  crown, 
and  assumed  the  title  of  Queen  of  England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland. 
On  July  10, 1559,  her  husband  became  Francis  II,  King  of  France. 
He  died  December  5,  1560,  and  she  returned  to  Scotland  August 
19,  1 561.    She  married  Henry  Stewart,  Lord  Darnley,  July  29, 

1565.  It  was  her  intention  to  restore  Catholicism  in  Scotland, 
and,  with  this  in  view,  she  gave  high  office  to  one  David  Rizzio, 
an  Italian.  Darnley's  jealousy  was  aroused,  and  he,  w^ith  a  company 
of  angry  nobles,  dragged  Rizzio  from  her  supper-room  March  9, 

1566,  and  murdered  him.  Pretending  a  reconciliation  with 
Darnley,  she  escaped  with  him  that  night,  and  fled  to  Dunbar. 
She  soon  raised  a  powerful  force,  and  entered  Edinburgh,  Mean- 
while, the  rebel  lords  escaped  to  England.  Her  son  (James  VI 
of  Scotland  and  James  I  of  England)  was  born  June  19,  1566. 
Becoming  hopelessly  estranged  from  Darnley,  she  took  James 
Hepburn,  Earl  of  Bothwell,  more  and  more  into  her  favor,  and 
plotted  with  him  for  the  murder  of  her  husband,  Darnley,  who 
was  ill,  was  taken  to  a  house  in  Kirk  of  Field,  near  Edinburgh, 
and  was  slain  there  by  an  explosion  of  gunpowder,  February  9, 1567. 
Bothwell  was  charged  with  the  crime,  and,  after  a  farcical  trial, 
was  acquitted  April  12,  He  was  divorced  from  his  wife  Catherine 
Gordon  on  May  3,  and  on  May  1 5  became  Mary's  third  husband. 
The  opposing  nobles  made  war  upon  him,  and  at  Carberry  Hill, 
June  15,  Mary  surrendered,  on  condition  that  Bothwell  should 
be  allowed  to  escape  unmolested.  Bothwell  fled  into  exile,  and 
Mary  was  sent  to  Lochleven.  While  there  she  abdicated,  and 
signed  an  act  nominating  her  half-brother  Murray  as  regent  for 
her  infant  son.  She  escaped  from  Lochleven  May  2,  1568, 
gathered  a  force  about  her,  and  was  finally  defeated  at  Langside, 
May  13.  She  then  crossed  the  Solway  into  England,  appealing 
to  Elizabeth  for  protection.      Then  followed  her  detention  at 


iflnDejt:  of  persons:  253 

Carlisle,  Bolton,  Tutbury,  Wingfield,  Tutbury,  Coventry, 
Chatsworth,  Sheffield  (1570-83),  Wingfield,  Tutbury,  Chart- 
ley,  and  Fotheringay.  During  these  years  occurred  the  North- 
umberland-Westmoreland plan  for  a  Catholic  rising  (1569),  the 
Ridolfi  conspiracy  (1572),  the  plot  for  an  invasion  under  the 
Duke  of  Guise  (1582),  and  the  Babington  conspiracy  (1586). 
Mary  was  also  engaged  during  these  years  in  much  active  con- 
spiracy with  the  Catholic  enemies  of  Elizabeth  in  France,  Spain, 
and  Italy.  She  was  tried  October  14-15,  at  Fotheringay,  for  com- 
plicity in  the  Babington  plot.  The  trial  was  before  a  commission 
of  English  nobles,  and  Mary  conducted  her  own  defence.  After 
the  second  day,  Elizabeth  adjourned  the  trial  to  the  star-chamber. 
Here  on  October  25,  with  but  one  dissenting  vote,  Mary  was  found 
guilty  by  the  commissioners.  About  three  weeks  later,  Buck- 
hurst  and  Beale  brought  the  verdict  to  her.  The  sentence  was 
proclaimed  and  welcomed  throughout  England,  but  Elizabeth  did 
not  sign  the  death-warrant  until  February  1,1587.  At  the  same 
time  she  sent  word  to  Paulet,  Mary's  keeper,  indicating  her  dis- 
pleasure that  he  should  not,  in  all  this  time,  have  found  some 
secret  way  of  doing  away  with  his  prisoner.  On  February  7, 
Shrewsbury  and  Kent  came  to  Fotheringay  to  superintend  the 
execution  of  the  sentence,  and  on  the  following  morning  she 
was  beheaded  in  the  great  hall  of  the  castle.  She  met  her  death 
with  courage  and  dignity,  solemnly  avowing  her  innocence,  and 
praying  for  her  church  and  her  enemies.  Elizabeth  pretended 
that  she  had  never  meant  the  execution  to  take  place,  vented  her 
displeasure  upon  those  immediately  responsible  for  it,  and  gave 
her  victim  a  royal  burial,  August  I ,  in  Peterborough  Cathedral. 
The  remains  were  afterwards  transferred  by  James  I  to  Westmin- 
ster Abbey. 

Melville.  Sir  Andrew  Melville  was  master  of  the  household  of 
Mary  during  her  latter  years,  and  brother  of  Robert,  first  Lord 
Melville.  He  accompanied  his  mistress  to  the  scaffold.  He  after- 
wards married  Jane  Kennedy. 

Melville.  Sir  Robert  Melville,  first  Lord  Melville,  was  employed 
by  Mary  in  diplomatic  negotiations  with  Elizabeth.  After  the 
sentence,  he  was  sent  by  James  VI  with  the  Master  of  Gray  to 
entreat  Elizabeth  to  spare  Mary's  life. 


254  31ntirr  of  |arr0on0 

Mendoza.  Don  Bernardino  de  Mendoza  was  Spanish  ambassador 
to  the  English  court,  and  was  charged  with  complicity  in  the 
Throckmorton  conspiracy.  In  consequence  of  this  he  was  ex- 
pelled from  the  country  in  January,  1584. 

Mildmay.  Sir  Walter  Mildmay  (i520?-I589)  was  Chancel- 
lor of  the  Exchequer,  and  founder  of  Emmanuel  College,  Cam- 
bridge.   He  was  one  of  the  commissioners  at  Mary's  trial. 

Morgan.  Thomas  Morgan  (1543-1606  ?)  was  a  Catholic  con- 
spirator devoted  to  the  cause  of  Mary.  He  was  with  her  in  Lord 
Shrewsbury's  castle  at  Tutbury,  where  he  managed  her  correspond- 
ence. In  1573  he  went  to  Paris,  and  became  her  confidential 
agent  abroad.  He  was  implicated  in  Parry's  plot  to  assassinate 
Elizabeth,  and  his  surrender  was  demanded  from  the  French 
king.  This  was  not  granted,  but  he  was  imprisoned  in  the 
Bastille,  where  he  continued  his  activities  as  agent  and  conspirator. 
He  helped  to  organize  the  Babington  conspiracy. 

Mowbray.  Barbara  Mowbray  was  one  of  Mary's  attendants. 
She  married  Gilbert  Curie,  the  secretary,  and  their  child  was 
baptized  by  Mary  with  her  own  name, 

Murray.  Lord  James  Stewart,  Earl  of  Moray  (153 1  ?-l57o) 
was  Mary's  half-brother  and  regent  of  Scotland.  He  was  assassin- 
ated by  James  Hamilton. 

Nau.  Claude  de  la  Boisseliere  Nau  (_^.  1 574-1 605)  was  Mary's 
French  secretary  from  1575. 

Neville.   See  Westmoreland. 

Norfolk.  Thomas  Howard,  fourth  Duke  of  Norfolk  (1536- 
1572),  was  a  son  of  the  poet  Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey. 
He  was  the  first  subject  in  England  under  Elizabeth,  and  sought 
to  become  the  fourth  husband  of  Mary  Stuart.  Conspiring  for 
her  liberation,  he  was  executed  as  a  traitor. 

Northumberland.  Henry  Percy,  ninth  Earl  of  Northumber- 
land (1564- 16 3 2),  whose  father  had  died  (probably  by  suicide) 
in  the  Tower  the  year  before  the  date  of  this  mention  of  the 
son,  was  a  Protestant,  but  his  intimacy  in  Paris  with  Charles 
Paget  placed  him  under  suspicion  of  being  an  adherent  of  Mary's 
cause. 


31nDer  of  l^ersfonsf  255 

Northumberland.  Thomas  Percy,  seventh  Earl  of  Northum- 
berland, was  beheaded  at  York,  August  22,  1572,  for  conspir- 
acy against  Elizabeth. 

Nottingham.   See  Howard. 

Paget.  Charles  Paget  [d.  161 2)  was  a  younger  brother  of 
Thomas  Paget.  He  left  England  about  1572,  and  settled  in 
Paris,  where  for  many  years  he  intrigued  in  Mary's  cause,  and 
shared  in  the  administration  of  her  immense  dowry  in  France. 
He  was  attainted  in  1587. 

Paget.  Thomas,  third  Lord  Paget  (^.  1590),  fled  to  Paris  after 
the  discovery  of  Throckmorton's  conspiracy  in  1583.  Elizabeth 
demanded  his  surrender  by  the  French  king,  but  was  refiised. 
He  was  attainted  in  1587,  and  died  in  exile. 

Parma.   See  Farnese. 

Parry.  William  Parry  {d,  1585)  was  a  Catholic  conspirator, 
implicated  with  Morgan  and  Charles  Paget  in  a  plot  to  murder 
Elizabeth.  Elected  to  Parliament  in  1584,  he  was  expelled  a  few 
months  later,  charged  with  high  treason,  convicted,  and  executed 
March  2,  1584-85. 

Parsons.  Robert  Parsons  (  1546-16 10)  was  an  English  Jesuit, 
active  in  intrigue  against  Elizabeth  and  the  Protestants  in  Eng- 
land. 

Paulet.  Sir  Amias  Paulet  (i536?-i588)  was  the  keeper  of 
Mary  during  her  last  year.  He  fulfilled  his  difficult  duties  in  a 
strictly  conscientious  manner,  and  sternly  refused  to  act  upon  the 
suggestion,  sent  him  by  Davison,  that  the  secret  murder  of  his 
prisoner  would  spare  Elizabeth  much  embarrassment. 

Percy.   See  Northumberland. 

Philip.  Philip  n.  King  of  Spain  (1527-15 98),  was  the  only 
son  of  the  Emperor  Charles  V.  In  1 5  54  he  married  Mary  Tudor, 
Queen  of  England,  and  after  her  death  attempted  to  obtain  the 
hand  of  Elizabeth. 

Phillipps.  Thomas  Phillipps  was  the  secretary  and  spy  of  Wal- 
singham  who  intercepted  and  deciphered  Mary's  correspondence. 
He  is  known  to  have  lived  until  1622,  or  later. 

Pierpoint.  Elizabeth  Pierpoint  was  a  daughter  of  Sir  Henry 
Pierpoint,  who  married  Frances  Cavendish,  one  of  the  children  of 
the  Countess  of  Shrewsbury  by  her  second  husband. 


256  31ntiric  of  |3rr0onfif 

The  Pope.  Gregory  XIII  (1572-1585),  Sixtus  V  (1585- 
1590). 

Popham.  Sir  John  Popham  (153  i  ?-i6o7)  was  Attorney-Gen- 
eral at  the  time  of  Mary's  trial. 

Ronsard.  Pierre  deRonsard  (1524-1585),  "  prince  of  poets," 
was  the  chief  of  the  Pleiade. 

Ross.  John  Leslie,  Bishop  of  Ross  (1527-1596),  was  intimately 
associated  with  Mary's  affairs  from  the  time  of  her  arrival  in 
Scotland.  He  was  one  of  her  most  trusted  counsellors,  and  was 
concerned  in  many  intrigues  on  her  behalf  From  1574  he 
represented  her  interests  in  Paris  and  Rome.  He  was  a  volumin- 
ous writer  of  historical  and  political  controversy,  and  the  chief 
literary  champion  of  the  Catholic  party  m  Scotland. 

Sackville.   See  Buckhurst. 

Salisbury.  Thomas  Salisbury  (1555  ?-i586)  was  one  of  the 
conspirators  with  Babington.  He  pleaded  guilty  to  the  charge 
of  inciting  rebellion  and  foreign  invasion,  but  denied  that  he  had 
plotted  the  assassination  of  Elizabeth.  He  was  executed  Septem- 
ber 21,  the  day  after  Babington  and  his  six  associates;  this 
accounts  for  the  fact  that  he  does  not  appear  in  Act  11,  Scene  3, 
of  the  tragedy. 

Savage.  John  Savage  {d.  1586)  was  a  Catholic  soldier.  He 
met  Ballard  in  London  in  1586,  and  volunteered  to  join  the 
Babington  conspiracy.  When  brought  to  trial,  he  confessed  to 
the  whole  indictment. 

Shrewsbury.  Elizabeth  Talbot,  Countess  of  Shrewsbury  { 1 5 1 8- 
1608),  known  as  "Bess  of  Hardwick,"  took  the  sixth  Earl  of 
Shrewsbury  for  her  fourth  husband  in  1568.  She  was  famous 
as  a  builder  and  as  a  woman  of  affairs. 

Shrewsbury.  George  Talbot,  sixth  Earl  of  Shrewsbury  (1528?- 
1590),  was  in  charge  of  Mary  from  1569  to  1584.  He  pre- 
sided at  her  execution. 

Stuart.    See  Murray. 

Talbot.  Mary  Cavendish  was  a  daughter  of  the  Countess  of 
Shrewsbury,  and  wife  of  Gilbert  Talbot,  son  of  the  Earl  of 
Shrewsbury  by  a  former  marriage. 


31nUr)t:  of  per0on0  257 

Talbot.    See  Shrewsbury. 

Throgmorton.  Thomas  Throckmorton  {d.  1595),  a  brother 
of  the  conspirator  Francis  Throckmorton  (executed  1584),  settled 
in  Paris  as  one  of  Mary's  agents  in  1582. 

Tichborne.  Chidiock  Tichbome  (i558?-i586)  was  one  of 
the  conspirators  with  Babington.  The  letter  which  he  wrote  to 
his  wife  on  the  eve  of  his  execution  is  preserved,  as  well  as  a 
poem  of  three  stanzas  which  he  is  said  to  have  written  in  the 
Tower. 

Tilney.  Charles  Tilney  (1561-1586)  was  one  of  the  conspir- 
ators with  Babington.  He  has  been  mentioned  as  possibly  the 
author  of  TAe  Tragedy  of  Locrincy  on  the  strength  of  a  manu- 
script note  to  that  effect  by  George  Buc,  found  by  Collier  in 
a  copy  of  the  1595  edition  of  the  play. 

Wade.  Sir  William  Wade  (or  Waad)  (1546-1623)  was  a  diplo- 
matist who  was  sent  to  Mary  to  propose  terms  with  Elizabeth, 
who  went  to  Paris  to  secure  Morgan's  extradition,  and  who 
seized  Mary's  papers  at  Chartley, 

Walsingham.  Sir  Francis  Walsingham  (1536  ?-l59o)  was 
Secretary  of  State  under  Elizabeth,  and  employed  upon  various 
foreign  missions.  He  was  one  of  the  commissioners  on  the  trial 
of  Mary,  and  was  accused  by  her  partisans  of  having  forged  the 
letters  to  Babington  offered  as  evidence  of  her  guilt. 

Westmoreland.  Charles  Neville,  sixth  Earl  of  Westmoreland 
(1543-1601),  joined  the  Earl  of  Northumberland  in  rebellion 
against  Elizabeth  ( 1569),  and  escaped  into  the  Spanish  Nether- 
lands, where  he  lived  in  exile  the  rest  of  his  life. 

Wyatt.  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  the  younger  (1521  ?-i554)  was  a 
son  of  the  poet,  and  leader  of  an  insurrection  against  Mary 
Tudor  in  1554.  For  this  enterprise,  undertaken  in  opposition  to 
her  marriage  with  Philip  II,  he  was  executed  for  high  treason. 


Cl^ronologfcal  liist  of  Wtitin%& 

i860.  The  Queen  Mother,  and  Rosamond. 

1865,  Atalanta  in  Calydon. 

1865.  Chastelard  :   A  Tragedy. 

1866.  Poems  and  Ballads. 

1866.  Note  on  Poems  and  Reviews. 

1867.  A  Song  of  Italy. 

1868.  Siena. 

1868.   William  Blake  :   A  Critical  Essay. 

1870.  Ode  on   the   Proclamation    of  the  French  Republic;  Sep- 

tember 4th,  1870. 

1 871.  Songs  before  Sunrise. 

1872.  Under  the  Microscope. 

1874.  Both  well:   A  Tragedy. 

1875.  George  Chapman. 
1875.    Essays  and  Studies. 

1875.  Songs  of  Two  Nations  (A  Song  of  Italy,  Ode  on  the  Pro- 

clamation of  the  French  Republic,  and  Dirae). 

1876.  Erechtheus  :  A  Tragedy. 

1876.  Note  of  an  English  Republican  on  the  Muscovite  Crusade. 

1877.  A  Note  on  Charlotte  Bronte. 

1878.  Poems  and  Ballads.    Second  Series. 
1880.  A  Study  of  Shakespeare. 

1880.   Songs  of  the  Springtides. 
1880.    Studies  in  Song. 

1880.  Specimens   of  Modern    Poets.     The  Heptalogia  ;  or,   the 

Seven  against  Sense.    A  Cap  with  Seven  Bells. 

1 88 1.  Mary  Stuart:   A  Tragedy. 

1882.  Tristram  of  Lyonesse,  and  Other  Poems. 

1883.  A  Century  of  Roundels. 

1884.  A  Midsummer  Holiday,  and  Other  Poems. 

1885.  Marino  Faliero  :   A  Tragedy. 


26o    Cljronological  llfet  of  Wititin^^ 

886,  A  Study  of  Victor  Hugo. 

886.  Miscellanies. 

887.  A  Word  for  the  Navy. 
887.  Locrine  :   A  Tragedy. 
889.  A  Study  of  Ben  Jonson. 

889.  Poems  and  Ballads.    Third  Series, 

892.  The  Sisters  :   A  Tragedy. 

894.  Astrophel,  and  Other  Poems. 

894.  Studies  in  Prose  and  Poetry. 

896.  The  Tale  of  Balen. 

899.  Rosamund,  Queen  of  the  Lombards, 

904.  A  Channel  Passage,  and  Other  Poems. 

905.  Love's  Cross  Currents. 

This  list  includes  all  of  Swinburne's  works  that  have  appeared 
as  individual  publications  with  title-pages  of  their  own.  To  them 
should  be  added  Dead  Lo-ve  (in  Once-a-fVeek^  1862),  and  A 
Yearns  Letter s^  by  Mrs.  Horace  Manners  (in  The  Tatler^  1877). 


The  place  of  publication  is  London  unless  otherwise  indicated. 

I.    TEXTS. 

1881.  Mary  Stuart.  A  Tragedy,  By  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne.      Chatto  &  Windus. 

1 881.  Mary  Stuart.  A  Tragedy.  By  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne.      New  York  :   R.  Worthington. 

1884.  Selections  from  the  Poetical  Works  of  A.  C. 
Swinburne.  Edited  by  R.  H.  Stoddard.  New  York  :  Thomas 
Y.  Crowell  &  Co. 

1899.  Mary  Stuart.  A  Tragedy.  By  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne.      Second  edition.      Chatto  &  Windus. 

1906.  Tragedies.  By  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.  Vol- 
ume IV.     Chatto  &  Windus.     New  York  :  Harper  &  Brothers. 

II.  WORKS.     BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 
CRITICAL. 

This  list  is  made  ivith  special  reference  to  Sivinburne^ s  tragedies. 
Other  references,  concerned  ivith  bis  poetic  ivork  in  general,  may  be 
found  in  the  Bibliographical  Note  to  Selected  Poems  by  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne,  edited  by  W.  M.  Payne  for  Section  VI  of  the 
Belles  Lettres  Series. 

1865.  Atalanta  in  Calydon.  Edinburgh  Revieiv,  122, 
202. 

1865-     Atalanta  in  Calydon.     Fortnightly  Re-vieiu,  i,  75. 

1865.  Atalanta  in  Calydon.  Nation,  i,  75.  (C.  E. 
Norton.) 


262  ^ibliograpl)^ 

1866.  Chastelard.  Fortnightly  RcvieWy  4,  533.  (Lord 
Houghton. ) 

1 87 1.  Our  Living  Poets,  An  Essay  in  Criticism.  By 
H.  Buxton  Forman.      Tinsley  Brothers. 

1873.  My  Study  Windows,  By  James  Russell  Lowell. 
Essay,  Swinburne^ 5  Tragedies. 

1874.  BoTHWELL.      Macmillan's  Magazine^  30,  521. 

1874.  BoTHWEiL.      Temple  Bar,  41,  545. 

1875.  Victorian  Poets.  By  E.  C.  Stedman.  Revised 
and  extended  edition,  1887.      Boston:   Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 

1876.  Erechtheus.      Edinburgh  Review,  144,  147. 
1882.      BoTHWELL.      Fortnightly    Review,    22,    76.      (Lord 

Houghton. ) 

1882.      Mary  Stuart.      Dial,   2,   237.      (F,    F.    Browne.) 

1882.  The  Mary  Stuart  Trilogy.  Fortnightly  Review, 
37,    166.      (G.    A.    Simcox.) 

1882  The  Mary  Stuart  Trilogy.  Fraser^s  Magazine, 
106,   469.  (T.  Bayne.) 

1883.  Mary  Stuart.      Lippincott'' s  Magazine,  32,  506. 

1883.  Encyclopedia  Britannica.  Ninth  edition.  Vol.  xv. 
Article,  Mary  Stuart,  by  A.  C.  Swinburne. 

1884.  Introduction  to  Selections  from  the  Poetical 
Works  of  A.  C.  Swinburne.  By  R.  H.  Stoddard.  New  York  : 
Thomas  Y.  Crowell  &  Co. 

1885.  Urbana  Script  a.     By  Arthur  Galton. 

1885.  Marino  Faliero.  Academy,  27,  412.  (E.  Robert- 
son.) 

1885.      Marino  Faliero.      Athenaum,  I,  751. 

z886.  Miscellanies.  By  A.  C.  Swinburne.  Chatto  & 
Windus,  New  York:  Worthington  Co.  Reprint  of  Encyclo- 
paedia Britannica  essay,  and  (Appendix  iii)  Note  on  the  Character 
of  Mary  Slueen  of  Scots.  [This  essay  and  note  are  both  reprinted 
in  vol.  IV  of  the  collected  edition  (1906)  of  the  Tragedies.'^ 

1887.  Bibliography  of  Swinburne.  By  Richard  Heme 
Shepherd. 

1887.      LocRiNE.      Saturday  Review,    64,   763. 

1887.  LocRiNE.  Gentleman^s  Magazine,  N.  s.,  39,  608. 
(R.    H.   Shepherd.) 


Bibliograpl)^  263 

1887.  LocRiNE.      Athenaum,  2,  856. 

1888.  Studies  New  and  Old.  By  W.  L.  Courtney.  Chap, 
man  &  Hall. 

1888.  LocRiNE.      Spectator^  61,  16. 

1892.  The  Sisters.      Athenaum,  ^»  Ji* 

1892.  The  Sisters.      Gentleman's  Magazine,  ji.  s.,  4.^,  ziz. 

1892.  The  Sisters.      Saturday  Re'vieiv,   73,  602. 

1892.  The  Sisters.      Academy,  42,  5.      (G.  Cottrell.) 

1893.  The  Sisters.      Spectator,  69,  19, 

1897.  A  Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature. 
Edited  by  Charles  Dudley  Warner.  New  York  :  R.  S.  Peale 
and  J.  A.  Hill.     Vol.  xxiv.      Article  by  W.  M.  Payne. 

1899.      LocRiNE.      Academy,  Locrine  on  the  Stage,  56,  362. 

1899.  Locrine.      Athenaum,  Locrine  on  the  Stage,  \,  380. 

1900.  Rosamund,  (^ueen  of  the  Lombards.     Academy,  57, 

534- 

1900.  Rosamund,  Queen  of  the  Lombards.  Critic,  36, 
152.     (E.  M.  Thomas.) 

1900.  Rosamund,  Queen  of  the  Lombards.  Nation,  70, 
361. 

1900.  Rosamund,  Queen  of  the  Lombards.  Dial,  28, 
48.      (W.  M.  Payne.) 

1900.  Rosamund,  Queen  of  the  Lombards.  Book  Buyer, 
20,  54.      (W.  C.  Brownell.) 

1900.  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.  A  Study.  By 
Theodore  Wratislaw,  Greening  &  Co.  New  York  :  A.  Wes- 
sels  Co. 

1902.  The  Queen  Mother.  Gentleman'' s  Magazine,  s.^., 
68,  301.      (R.  Colles.) 

1903.  Early  Dramas  and  Poems.  Gentleman'' s  Magazine, 
n.  s.,  71,  128.     (R.  Colles.) 

1904.  Chambers's  CYCLOPii^DiA  of  English  Literature. 
Edited  by  David  Patrick.  Edinburgh  :  W.  &  R.  Chambers. 
Philadelphia  :  J.  B.  Lippincott  Co.  Vol.  in.  Article  by  James 
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1905.  The  Poems  of  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.  Six 
volumes.  Chatto  &  Windus.  New  York  :  Harper  &  Brothers. 
Vol.  I.      Dedicatory  epistle  to  Theodore  fVatts-Dunton. 


264  llBibliograpl)^ 

1905.  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.  By  George  Edward 
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